


Before I Come Home

by TooSel



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Depression, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fix-It, Getting Together, Healing, Health Resort, M/M, Melancholy, Mental Health Issues, Non-Explicit Sex, Past Abuse, Post S4, Recovery, Therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-12
Updated: 2017-06-24
Packaged: 2018-11-13 07:21:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 36,602
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11179830
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TooSel/pseuds/TooSel
Summary: Sometimes you need to reopen old wounds before they can heal. Sometimes you need to get away before you can come home.





	1. Leaving

**Author's Note:**

> English isn't my native language and this is unbetad, feel free to point out any mistakes! This has been written for months, now I finally made myself edit it. This is my attempt at fixing the unfixable. It was equally painful and healing to write, and I hope it brings you some closure too. 
> 
> There are no mentions of Eurus because I didn't even know where to start with fixing that. I wanted to focus on the emotional aspect of the relationship between Sherlock and John in this, and what I felt needed to happen in order for them to have a healthy balance again. Keep in mind that I’m not a professional, so take the therapy sessions with a grain of salt.

The flat has been rebuilt. The floors are cleaned, the paint dried. The books on the shelves have been replaced, the skulls put back in their rightful places. The yellow face on the wall grins at Sherlock like it always used to, only drawn by John's hand this time, completed with three bullet holes for old times' sake.

It is as good as new, with no traces of the ruins it was rendered to if you don't look past the surface. It's not as it used to be, but Sherlock doesn't think that it can ever be that way again. That is fine. He doesn't think that he can ever be that way again either.

It's a strange thought. He is not sure how he feels about that. The past few months - years, really – have been exhausting beyond anything Sherlock has ever experienced, and he has been in rehab several times. He supposes that he should be grateful. He came out of everything that happened alive and unharmed, more or less. He has John back in his life, and Rosie. He is fine. It's fine.

So he doesn't think about it.

He works a lot instead. He told Mrs. Hudson that it's the best antidote to sorrow, and while he has no reason to _feel_ sorrow, he does feel inclined to follow his own advice for once. He keeps busy enough that he simply has no time to ponder his feelings on the matter. And it works, most days. It's fine. He is getting by, making money, and cherishing the days when John decides to spend a few hours with him, sometimes bringing Rosie along. Having spent so long apart, not knowing if John would ever want to see him again, every minute feels like a treasure.

It's the days in between that make him falter in his rhythm, when there is no work to be done. When John hasn't come to see him and starts feeling continents away rather than miles. When the lure of what Sherlock used to seek out when his mind turned in on itself becomes stronger than he wants to bear. He is clean again. He promised himself that.

It doesn't make it any easier.

It is on those days that he realises how deep the feeling he so expertly ignores most of the time cuts within him. He doesn't know what to do with it. He feels worn, tired in a way that has nothing to do with sleeping. He doesn't quite feel right within himself.

Then again, he seldom has. The fact that the feeling is different now, bigger than what it used to be, bigger than Sherlock when he is at his lowest by far, is just a minor inconvenience.

He tells himself that on those days. He doesn't stop to think about it, because he is sure he won't like what he would find once he starts digging. Deep waters indeed.

He carries on.

It is Mycroft who gets him thinking in the end. He addresses the issue during one of his social calls – rather more frequent these days – with a scrutinising look over his cup of tea.

“Do you think this is a good idea, Sherlock?”

Sherlock meets his eyes with a questioning glance. “What is?”

“The way you're... handling things? Forgive me if I'm overstepping, but I can't quite help but think that you've been drowning your emotional response to the traumatic and disturbing events of the last few months, or years by extension, in work.”

Sherlock frowns, briefly wondering if Mycroft decided to read up on Freud. “Since when do you give a fig about emotions?” he asks.

Mycroft regards him steadily. “You're not the only one who has changed, brother dear.”

Sherlock takes a sip from his cup. Mycroft leans back, lifting an eyebrow. “How _are_ you, Sherlock?”

“I'm fine,” Sherlock replies immediately. Mycroft gives him a smug look, and Sherlock narrows his eyes. _Damn him._

“Allow me,” Mycroft puts forward, “to make a suggestion. I know you have built your life here. But you don't seem at the top of your game, if you'll forgive me for saying so. You have always been much more sensitive than I wanted to see. Recent events have been... taxing, for all of us. A lot of your trauma is connected to this city and your life here. Don't you think a break would be beneficial? Just to clear your head, as they say. It would do you good to get away from here for a while. Everything you're leaving behind will still be here once you return.”

“Are you trying to get rid of me, _brother_?” Sherlock retorts, but Mycroft just raises an eyebrow. Meddlesome as ever. Sherlock can't quite bring himself to be mad. That, he supposes, is a concession of his being right in itself.

“I suppose you have a suggestion for my... getting away,” he says. Mycroft's face shows surprise for a split second, gone within the blink of an eye. It gives Sherlock a childish sense of satisfaction. Mycroft may always be right, but he can still catch him off guard.

“As it happens, there is a wellness clinic in Cornwall that I can highly recommend. It's similar to one of those health hotels, if you have heard of those, only with qualified people.”

Sherlock snorts. “Hand-picked, I assume.”

Mycroft's look silences him. “I can personally testify to the competence of each and every employee. They have an excellent selection of treatments for body and mind alike. The scenery is not to be disregarded either. It's not a bad place to spend some time.” Sherlock quirks an eyebrow at his delicate phrasing for what he assumes boils down to counselling. The prospect of wellness treatments holds a certain appeal though. He does feel wrung out, like he's not quite at the top of his game the way he used to be. It might be age catching up with him rather than the strain of the last months, but the thought of resting for a while is intriguing, to say the least.

Good god, he _is_ getting old.

Mycroft takes a card from his pocket. “This is the name of the clinic. I'm sure you'll want to conduct your own research before making a decision. Do give it a thought, Sherlock. For your sake, if not mine.” His lips curl slightly. “The English countryside _is_ so nice this time of the year.”

Sherlock takes the card. “I'll think about it,” he says. Mycroft nods.

“That is all I ask. Rest assured that everything will be taken care of, should you decide to go. It's your choice.”

He leaves soon after that, having said what he came for. He stops on his way out, though.

“There is no weakness in taking care of yourself, brother. It would... reassure me, to see you taking care of what I failed to do.”

Sherlock swallows and doesn't reply. He listens to Mycroft's steps on the staircase as he leaves. His eyes fall on the card in his hands. _Eaton Health Resort, Cornwall._

He hasn't been to Cornwall in a few years. It's nice, from what he remembers. He looks around the flat, turning the card over in his hands. Everything still looks a little too new, too clean, but it is undeniably, irrevocably home. It has been for the last couple of years, ever since he set foot into 221b with John following after him, still leaning on his cane. It was home even when it wasn't, when he worked his way through Moriarty's network when he was dead. It was home when John wasn't here anymore, when he returned and brought Mary with him each time, when Rosie was here for the first time and during the long, silent months Sherlock does not want to think about.

It is home now, and yet.

And yet.

He looks at the chair opposite his – John's, it's still John's, even though he doesn't live here anymore and never claimed this one except for his visits.

It's John's, and it's empty. It's a void Sherlock does not know how to handle most days, despite having done so ever since his return from the dead.

In some ways it's easier now, after everything that happened between them in recent history. In some ways it is much, much worse.

Suddenly a change of scenery doesn't seem like the worst idea Mycroft has ever had.

He would come back, of course he would. Soon. The flat would still be there. The work would still be there. John and Rosie would certainly still be there when he returned.

But maybe the ghosts that linger in the shadows of the flat, sometimes behind every corner in the city, catching up with Sherlock when he's at his lowest, would cease. Maybe London would be London again instead of the ghost town it had become.

Maybe Sherlock would feel a little more settled again. A little more whole, just a touch.

Sherlock gets up to fetch his laptop. He reads up on the clinic for a while, then ponders the topic over his solitary dinner. By the time night falls, he has made his decision.

He asks John to come over the next day. He arrives in time for lunch, nodding his agreement when Sherlock asks if he wants Thai.

He settles in his chair ( _his,_ Sherlock thinks, _still his, always his_ ) while Sherlock places their order. When he's done, he sits down opposite him.

There is no use in deferring the news.

Sherlock folds his hands together. “I'm going to go away for a while.”

As expected, John's eyes shoot up immediately. “What?” The utter shock his face betrays surprises Sherlock however.

“Don't look so scared,” he jokes. “I would have thought you'd be glad to get rid of me for some time.”

“That's-” John cuts himself off, then shakes his head slightly and asks instead, “Where are you going?”

“Cornwall. There is a health resort in St. Ives that I'm going to be staying at.”

“A health resort.” John furrows his brow. “This isn't for a case, is it? Are you sick? You should have told me that something was up. I'm a doctor, you know, I'm capable-”

“I'm not sick,” Sherlock interjects. “I'm perfectly alright, John. I do trust your professional opinion, regardless of what I may have led you to believe.”

John blinks at him in incomprehension. “What is this, then? Some sort of vacation?”

“In a way, yes. The resort is versatile. It's a wellness spa for those who want it and a health retreat for those who need it.”

“And you are...”

“Somewhere in the middle,” Sherlock concedes. “You know the last couple of months have been... eventful. Mycroft and I agree that it would do me no harm to take a step back for some time.”

John's eyebrows lift, but he refrains from commenting. “For how long?” he asks instead.

“A few weeks, no longer than three months. I do have a reputation to uphold, but I'm keeping my options open.” He lifts his shoulders. “See how long I can bear staying away. From London.”

 _From you,_ is what he almost let slip. John meets his eyes for a moment before frowning at his hands. “Three months,” he repeats, as if to himself.

Ah. That's what he's worried about.

“I'll be back,” Sherlock says softly. A warm sensation spreads in his stomach. It is still new to him to admit his importance in John's life, but he knows that apart from Rosie, he is all John has left. Despite everything he did wrong when it comes to John and himself. Even though he knows it's second-best to what he really wants at most, he won't deny John that.

“Yeah, I know. Yeah, just- can't imagine you out of London, is all.”

He gives him a brief smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes. He is still looking all too serious. Sherlock bites his lip, trying to lighten the mood.

“I know. Can you believe it? Look at me, I've gotten _boring_. Domesticated.”

John regards him with a tight crease in his forehead. When he speaks, he lowers his eyes to somewhere next to Sherlock's shoulder. “Still, I think it's a good idea.” His voice is quiet. He hesitates slightly before he continues. “I... yeah. It's good. For you. You should go and look after yourself. It's been... a lot. You should go,” he repeats, as if trying to convince him. Or himself.

Sherlock nods once in agreement, giving John a scrutinising look. He isn't quite sure what to make of his words, or the fact that John won't meet his eyes. “I will,” he agrees, then swallows. He can feel the words he wasn't sure he should say on the tip of his tongue, ready to tumble out. He's still not sure if he should. John is still looking away, seemingly brooding.

“I've been reading up on the health resort,” Sherlock begins before he can change his mind. Enough time has passed where they didn't say the words that stood between them. Sherlock is over that. Nothing good has ever come out of keeping everything inside, hidden like a dark secret. There are some things he can never say, not because of himself, but for John's sake. These are the things he doesn't need to know if he doesn't already. Sherlock is honestly not sure. It's not a pleasant sensation. He thinks that the secret he is hiding, the depth of his affection towards John is as visible as a flashing neon sign on the best days, but John has never acknowledged it, and it is his decision to make. If John chooses to disregard them, he isn't going to make him face it. If that is what keeps him by John's side, then it's a small price to pay. Sherlock has been through worse. But apart from that, they have learned the hard way that honesty is the better choice, always.

“Yes?” John asks, effectively ripping him from his thoughts.

“Er. It said on the website that it's also equipped for parent-child-treatments. That is, if you'd be interested in something like that.”

John blinks at him. Sherlock keeps himself from fidgeting in his chair as he awaits his answer, bracing himself for rejection.

“I don't really think we have the budget for some fancy health clinic like that,” John says, but Sherlock's heart gives a hopeful jolt at his tone – thoughtful rather than dismissive. He's actually contemplating coming along.

“Part of it would be covered by your health insurance,” Sherlock says, trying not to sound too eager. “As for the rest, it was Mycroft who recommended the clinic to me. He will take care of having the expenses covered.”

“And by extension mine and Rosie's.”

“Precisely.”

John licks his lips. “You know, part of me wants to refuse anything Mycroft has to give on principle. But another part of me thinks that we've bloody well earned it.”

“You have,” Sherlock agrees quietly. “I think Rosie would like Cornwall,” he adds after a moment. John looks up. The corner of his lips moves up in something that can almost be called a smile.

“I think you're right,” he says. He takes a deep breath, then meets Sherlock's eyes. The crease in his forehead is gone. “When are you leaving?”

“Next Monday. In ten days.”

John hums. “I don't think I can manage that soon. But I could follow once I've taken care of everything. I'd have to talk to my insurance, take care of a substitute for work. Don't know if I could manage three months, but... a few weeks should be fine.”

“We can go back to London whenever we feel like it. We'll see how long it takes until the countryside drives us mad,” Sherlock remarks dryly, but the gaze he exchanges with John tells him that they are both far more excited than they are letting on. “So it's a deal?” he asks, and a grin splits his lips when John nods.

“Cornwall,” he mumbles, leaning back in his chair. “Haven't been there in ages.”

“Neither have I. I look forward to... you know. The woods. Paths on the ground, very interesting. Trees and all that. Fascinating.”

Their eyes meet, and the next second they both burst out laughing.

“Idiot,” John says fondly when they've caught their breaths, wiping his eyes. Sherlock grins. He really does look forward to the trip, though the trees aren't what he has in mind.

* * *

True to any cliches concerning English weather, it rains when Sherlock arrives in St. Ives. He glances at his surroundings – small, green, wet – then turns up his coat collar and steps into the rain. The Eaton Health Resort is a forty minute ride away. There is a driver waiting for him, and Sherlock is grateful for not having to deal with a chatty cabbie.

The pictures on the website weren't deceiving; the clinic is massive. It's just as well, Sherlock thinks, more space to avoid annoying residents. He can make out the beginnings of the park he has read about behind the building, alluring with its wide fields and veiled corners. It's the first thing he decides to explore once he has checked in.

The air is cold as he steps outside, adjusting his collar against the wind. It smells different than London. He supposes that is the country air people are always on about.

He takes a long walk, letting the view sink in as he makes his way through a part of the park. It is big enough to keep him occupied for some time at least, which Sherlock supposes is a blessing. He's not sure when boredom will kick in, but he's determined to hold it off for a while. He notices a few plants he files away for later, musing that he could take some samples with him to analyse back home. He does appreciate the beauty, though he doesn't quite feel the promised relaxation yet.

Then again, he has only been here for a few hours. Relaxation doesn't come easily to him anyway, his mind constantly working on one problem or another to the point of driving him around the bend. It's worst when there are no problems to work on and his mind turns to himself instead.

Deliberately pushing the thoughts to the back of his mind, Sherlock changes his direction and enters a less secluded area of the park. He meets a few residents in passing on his walk, acknowledging them with a nod, but for the most part it's quiet. There is a silence around him he can't quite decide whether it's calm or eerie, leaving him with nothing but his thoughts to focus on.

That is a path he does not want to go down. Not today.

Sherlock stops walking when a raven flies by. He watches as it settles on the oak in front of him, building its nest.

There is a weariness inside him he can't quite make sense of. It is the feeling that has been sitting in his chest for longer than he can strictly say, long enough that he has grown accustomed to it. It is heavy enough to pull him down when he ponders it, and so most days he doesn't. He doesn't have any answers that would be to his liking anyway.

He asks himself how he is feeling now, and can't come up with a plain answer. His feelings have always been an enigma to him, emotions not being his area, but now he doesn't know at all what to make of them.

A problem too complex for Sherlock Holmes to solve. The irony almost makes him smile.

He should be glad to be here. Maybe not happy, because he rarely is, but glad isn't too much to ask for. He was looking forward to this. He thought that this might be what he needs to stop feeling so numbingly empty.

Maybe that is just how he is now, though. Not that it's a huge loss; nobody ever knew how to handle the full Sherlock Holmes experience. Maybe it's not a bad thing that he gave so much of himself away that he is now missing parts.

Sherlock lets out a sigh that nobody hears and turns back to the building. He certainly hasn't lost his touch for the dramatic.

He wills himself to give it time, if nothing else. It's a childish notion that his mood would magically improve as soon as he set foot in this establishment. Empires may fall within a single day, but it takes a whole lot longer to rebuild them. A mind palace surely is no different, and neither is the person it belongs to.

He resolves to stop the reflecting right here before he gets lost in those thoughts. He ought to save this for counselling. At least then he'll have something to talk about.

The thought of counselling leads his mind to a different direction. He has yet to decide on a schedule for the upcoming days. Eaton Health Resort offers a variety of treatments and activities in groups and for individuals alike, a fact that Sherlock appreciates immensely. Mycroft has done well in recommending him this specific clinic. There are several slots for each activity, leaving it to the residents to sign up for however many and however often they like.

Sherlock decides to start his first treatment as soon as he gets back. If he is here already, he might as well make use of it. He's got all the time in the world, too. John and Rosie are joining him in eight days, so he had better keep himself occupied until then. Although a little time by himself without constantly being on call in case either of them should demand his attention or assistance doesn't seem like the worst idea. He looks forward to seeing them again, but it also feels good to take a step back for a while.

He vaguely wonders if that makes him a bad friend and godfather, but quickly comes to the conclusion that it is far from the worst thing he has ever done. He never claimed to be of the altruistic sort, not that that makes it better. But, he thinks dryly, it is what it is.

The words evoke a memory that he quickly shuts down. Wrong place, wrong time. His hands are getting cold in the fresh air. He tucks them into his pockets and picks up his pace as he walks back to the clinic, going through the list of activities residents can choose from as they please. There was something about a sauna, which seems like just the right thing after his walk in the cold. He thinks he remembers reading something about massages, too. With that in mind, keeping himself occupied doesn't seem like a problem anymore.

* * *

“Sherlock, dear, over here!”

Sherlock follows the voice, making a beeline to the elderly woman waving at him.

“Ruth,” he says in greeting, sitting down opposite her with his breakfast. “You look well-rested. The yoga last night was a success, I take it?”

“Marvellous, I can tell you. You need to try it, young man.”

“Will do,” Sherlock agrees, the corner of his lips curving up. Ruth, while being almost twenty years younger than Mrs. Hudson, bears the same kind of protective affection she displays towards him. It makes him feel more at home, at ease. “I scheduled it for tomorrow after lunch. I thought John might want to come along and try it out.”

“Oh, right! Your John is coming today, isn't he?”

 _Your John_. Sherlock shuts down those thoughts immediately, but the warm sensation in his belly remains. He knows he shouldn't, that nothing good will come of it, but it's easy to pretend here. Nobody knows who and what they are. Nobody knows what they aren't.

“That's right,” he confirms. “He and Rosie will be here in a few hours.”

“Lovely. I can't wait to meet that lovely man of yours.”

Sherlock lets out a deep breath. “He's my best friend,” he says, if in agreement or correction he doesn't know. Ruth does not seem to care either way; he has quickly come to realise that she has her own ideas about the way things are. Maybe that is why he took a liking to her, and vice versa.

John arrives two hours after breakfast. Sherlock has just finished his morning yoga session and waits for him outside. It's not quite as cool as the day he arrived; his muscles are still warm and when he rubs his arms it's enough to stand outside without his coat for a few minutes.

His lips stretch into a smile he can't suppress when the car he recognises as Mycroft's pulls up in the driveway.

It's ridiculous, the way it still takes his breath away for a second when he lays eyes on John. It's only been nine days since he last saw him – he stopped by on the evening before Sherlock's departure under the pretence of 'helping him pack', but really they ended up having tea on the sofa, talking about anything and nothing – but it hits him like a physical blow.

“John,” he says in greeting, keeping his voice even. John grins at him.

“Hello, stranger. Is that part of the service, you waiting for us by the door?”

“Just for VIP guests,” Sherlock replies, smiling down at him.

“Well, I'm flattered.” He looks him up and down, tilting his head. “You're looking well. Feeling relaxed yet?

“Starting to. I'm really beginning to think that this wasn't one of Mycroft's worst ideas. You made the right choice in joining me here, the treatments are excellent.”

They look at each other for a moment, both wearing wide smiles, before Sherlock sweeps him into a brief but heartfelt hug. John's arms tighten around him and Sherlock closes his eyes before he drops them and steps back.

It's one of the few good things that have come out of the past months. Physical contact comes more naturally to them now. It still ignites a longing in Sherlock's chest that is too much to think about, too strong to name, but then again he _is_ an addict – drawn to his inevitable destruction like a moth to a flame.

“Now, where's the little troublemaker?”

One of the other good things to have come out of everything. Rosie gurgles when she sees him peeking through the door of the car, reaching for him with grabby hands. He undoes her seat belt and takes her out of the children's seat, giving her forehead a kiss before balancing her on his hip.

“How are we today, Rosie? Are you well?”

She certainly looks well. At eighteen months she has almost outgrown the baby phase, stretching and losing her baby fat with each passing day. She already seems to have grown again since the last time Sherlock saw her. She still rarely speaks, but Sherlock doesn't fault her for that.

He hums in consideration when she babbles in response, mostly incoherent sounds, then looks at John. He is regarding them with a fond expression, an easy smile on his lips. “Did you have a good trip?”

“Mostly, yeah. Minus the crying at King's Cross and the spilling incident when we got off the train.”

“Altogether a relaxed morning, then.”

John laughs. “Yeah, you could say that. We've definitely had worse.”

Sherlock smiles at him at the sound. It always catches him off guard, John's laughter – it's not that he hasn't heard it in so long, it's that the sound has become so rare lately. It's better now than it used to be in the immediate aftermath of Mary and all that came after. He laughs with Rosie, sometimes with Sherlock. But it's not how it used to be, before everything.

Then again, nothing is.

“Come on,” Sherlock says, sweeping Rosie up into his arms before turning around. “I'll show you everything you need to know. You can get someone to show you around, but I'll take care of that. Much more efficient.”

“Because this holiday is all about efficiency,” John remarks dryly.

“Better to get this out of the way,” Sherlock says with a pointed look over his shoulder. “Ruth has been dying to meet you, and at her age I wouldn't put it past her to actually go through with it. She has a sense of humour like that.”

“Right.” John pauses. “Who's Ruth?”

“Friend of mine. One of the elderly residents. Keep up!”

He stops in front of John and Rosie's door. “This is yours. Mine is next door. Mycroft got us adjoining rooms but don't worry, you can lock the door. I won't intrude.”

“We did live together once,” John points out, quirking an eyebrow. “Why would I worry about that?”

Sherlock's shoulders tense in a half-shrug. “Who knows.” He steps aside to let John enter, silently awaiting the comment he knows is coming.

It doesn't take long.

“Wow. _Bloody_ hell, that's- even more fancy than I expected.”

“Don't worry. It's all on Mycroft.”

“Yeah, I should bloody well hope so. Jesus. How do people afford this?” He wanders through the room, peeks into the bathroom and the separate chamber for Rosie.

“It's a bit luxurious, I'll grant you that. The maximal comfort is probably supposed to add to our well-being or something.”

John hums. “Well, I'm not complaining. Rosie will be spoiled when we get back home though. Does yours look like this too?”

“Without the second room, yes. Do you want to unpack first or shall I show you around?”

John decides on the tour. Sherlock focuses on the most important places for now, pointing out that he'll have more than enough time to explore everything later on. Even so, John is swamped. He marvels at the physical wing, approving of the pools (“Pools? Plural?” he asks when Sherlock opens the door, then falls silent as he lays eyes on them) and the outdoor fields as well as the gym room. They stand at the entrance of the park, but decide not to go in – Rosie isn't adequately dressed, and Sherlock's next appointment is starting soon. He takes John to the kitchen and eating area, shows Rosie the playground and children's room (big mistake, convincing her to leave without starting a riot turns out to be quite the challenge) and finally ends up in front of the community room, but doesn't go in, knowing that he won't come out any time soon once a certain elderly guest he spots inside gets hold of him.

“Well, that's quite something,” John concludes when they get back to their rooms, wrestling Rosie out of her jacket.

“You haven't seen the half of it yet. You're still missing the entire wellness wing, for one. And the recreational room. Art, music, writing, that sort of thing,” he specifies when he sees John's look. “Might be something for you, actually. Rosie needs to stay out though. No screaming allowed.”

“Do you go there sometimes?” John wants to know.

Sherlock nods. “Loads, yes. It's good for reading, doing research. One of the other guests sometimes asks me to play, too.”

John lifts his eyebrows, but smiles. “Haven't heard you play in a while,” he remarks.

“We can remedy that,” Sherlock replies, smiling as well. “Not right now, though. Are you all settled? Do you need anything?”

“Nothing I can't get from the front desk.”

“I'll leave you to it then. I have a massage in twenty minutes. I highly recommend it, by the way. If you need someone to look after Rosie just ring the front desk. Take a look at the list of treatments while I'm gone, you can start with yours right away if you want to.”

“Right. I'll see you around lunch then?”

Sherlock nods. “I'll meet you here.”

“Enjoy your massage,” John calls after him. Sherlock smiles at the thought of the very talented young man who has been doing wonders for his back over the last week.

“Oh, I will.”

By the time Sherlock picks John and Rosie up, their room is arranged and the suitcases have been packed away. Rosie is playing with bricks on the floor when Sherlock picks her up.

“Sweet girl,” he murmurs, nuzzling her hair. It's beginning to curl at the tips, giving her an air of innocence he knows for a fact to be deceptive. “I've missed you.”

“You've only been gone for two hours,” John points out behind them. Sherlock turns around.

“I wasn't talking about today. Are you ready to go?”

They are late for lunch in comparison to the other guests; most of them have already gone on to their post-lunch treatments. Sherlock doesn't particularly mind, he prefers it this way. John will have enough time to meet everyone later on, he'll be enough of an attraction with Rosie anyway. People are drawn to toddlers like magnets.

“Have you scheduled the rest of the week yet?” he asks when they sit down at a secluded table with their plates.

“Just a few things. I thought we could do some things together, maybe.”

“Of course. Show me your plan.”

John hands him the sheet of paper along with the brochure. He has circled the treatments he's interested in. So far he has signed up for parent-child-bonding activities every morning and different physical activities with children in the afternoon.

“I feel bad abandoning her throughout the day,” he says as Sherlock looks over the sheet. He glances at him, quirking an eyebrow.

“You weren't saying anything, I know. It's just-” He lets out a frustrated breath. “I did that. After Mary. A lot. I don't want to do this to her again.”

“You're not abandoning her by taking time for yourself. It's not like you're putting her in a day-care centre for fifteen hours every day. She is in contact with other children her age there, and the minders are excellently qualified.”

“I know.” John sighs. “I know that, yeah. It's just- sorry. I didn't mean to be defensive. It just happens.”

“It's fine,” Sherlock says calmly. He itches to reach out and squeeze his hand, but holds himself back. Better not to push his luck. He's surprised John is talking about his feelings at all, he doesn't want to ruin it.

That is something else that is different about John. Speaking about his emotions still doesn't come easy to him, but lately he has been making attempts at giving it a try anyway. Sherlock doesn't take that lightly.

“Nobody is thinking badly of you for giving Rosie into day-care. You shouldn't do it either. Besides, you already signed up for two activities with her every day. There's more that all three of us can do together. I'm not opposed to watching her if you want an hour to yourself either, if it's the strangers you're worried about.”

“Yeah, that's... that would work, probably.” John licks his lips. “I'll let you know when you can take her. Thanks.”

“Don't mention it. Now, there's this excellent yoga instructor you have to sign up for. I'm going to his course tomorrow evening, if you want to come along...”

They discuss the schedule without any further interruptions, and in the end come up with a good mix of shared and single treatments.

John has put counselling two times a week down after seeing Sherlock doing the same. Sherlock is glad for it. He knows John is still seeing Ella at home, but his appointments are irregular. A set rhythm of counselling will probably do him good too.

He's getting used to going to counselling himself now. The line that seemed impossible to cross was easy to abandon once it concerned John after what happened with Mary. It's still a change to see someone regularly, and having the conversation turn to him rather than John is challenging to say the least, but he's managing. He is aware that they've only scratched the surface so far, but going deeper doesn't scare him like it used to, even if he never would have admitted it.

And if John can do it, he can get himself to going through with it too.

They part ways after lunch. John takes Rosie for a walk in the park before their bonding activity in the afternoon. Sherlock retreats for a nap before his handicraft and art course. John laughs when he tells him about it and Sherlock joins in, because the amount of relaxation the hour spent in the craft room offers surprised him too. He signed up for that activity out of boredom rather than actual interest and found himself intrigued by the teacher, who took a look at his crossed arms and quirked eyebrow and put down a sheet of paper in front of him, telling him to try out drawing.

He tried. He did not succeed right away, but the desire to do so had been sparked. He's getting there. And sitting down to narrow his focus on the sole task of drawing line after line until he has created an image is surprisingly refreshing, almost meditative. By now Sherlock finds himself looking forward to it.

They meet Ruth during dinner. Sherlock introduces her to John and Rosie out of courtesy rather than need, as her eyes fall on them immediately.

“It is so good to meet you, Dr. Watson,” she says, shaking his hand. “Sherlock has told me so much about you, and I've been reading up on your blog, of course. A shame that you don't update it anymore.” She gives Rosie a smile, shaking her little hand. “And you must be little Rosamund! What a dear you are, my.”

“Er, good to meet you too,” John replies, throwing a glance at Sherlock. Sherlock just raises his shoulder as if to say _told you she was eager to meet you._ “And it's John, please.”

“Well, John. I'm Ruth. I've been taking care of this one while you were away.”

Sherlock huffs, pretending to be affronted. John's lips curve into a knowing smile. “He's mentioned you, yeah. Seems you've done a good job looking after him.”

“Oh, he's been doing a lot of that himself, too. Look at him, all glowing up. Looked a lot less at ease when he came here.”

John does look at him, and his gaze is so attentive and earnest that Sherlock almost shivers under it. “Yeah,” he agrees after a moment. “I think so too.” He hands Rosie a piece of bread to chew on, then looks back to Ruth. “So, how long have you been here?”

Once Ruth starts talking she doesn't stop. One of her most valuable qualities, Sherlock deems, is to keep someone engaged in a conversation without turning to mindless chatter. There is always something worth listening to in what she has to say. Judging by John's attentive face, he thinks so too.

“By the way,” Ruth interrupts herself, putting a hand on Sherlock's arm as she turns to him. “Before I forget, Sarah Jane asked me to thank you for the book on poisonous plants you lent her. She feels, and I quote, enlightened.”

Sherlock waves his hand. “It was nothing, really. I just couldn't listen to her uneducated babbling any longer. Sarah Jane goes to Ruth's aqua gymnastics on Saturdays,” he explains upon seeing John's questioning gaze.

“Don't tell me you've gone to aqua gymnastics too,” John jokes.

“Don't be silly.” Sherlock shakes his head. “I met her during Sunday's game night.”

He hides a smile at John's expression, turning back to Ruth when she says, “The downside is that now Miriam has gotten wind of your knowledge on the topic. She thinks herself so smart, you know how it is, I've told you about the lunch incident-” John lifts his eyebrows in question, Sherlock just shakes his head- “and she's bickered about you with Rory all throughout our morning yoga session. I can tell you, the relaxation was _minimal._ ”

As is her way, Ruth engages them in effortless conversation all throughout dinner, leaving no time for silences to come up. It is only when Sherlock leans back in his seat, having finished his plate, that he realises that John has mostly kept quiet. He shoots him a look, trying to determine his emotional state.

John is bowed over Rosie's chair, wiping her mouth clean. He seems to intently listen to their conversation though, his head half turned towards them. When he drops the napkin on Rosie's plate he returns his gaze to them, clearly following what they are saying.

Their eyes meet, and the corners of his lips turn up in a genuine smile. Sherlock returns it, feeling a surge of warmth run through him at the sight. He can't quite put his finger on what it is that makes John seem a bit softer here, less on edge. His shoulders are relaxed, his eyes alert but not haunted. It's an expression Sherlock only now realises he has sorely missed.

“She's lovely,” John says when they return to their rooms, and Sherlock knows he means it. “Not quite what I expected, but then again it's always the unexpected with you.”

The ambiguity of the statement makes Sherlock turn to him, but there's no bitterness in John's voice, and his face is still relaxed. “You know I prefer the unexpected,” he settles on. “Everything else is too boring.”

John chuckles. “Says the man who has taken a time out in the English countryside and discovered handicraft for himself.”

“I'm wounded, John,” Sherlock remarks dryly. John smiles at him.

“Good thing you're here to heal, then,” he says, and though his tone is light, Sherlock knows that it's genuine.

He is starting to feel the same way.


	2. Away I

“Before you came here, when was the last time you were happy?”

Sherlock contemplates the question. “Happiness is an abstract concept,” he points out. Karla nods. She's young for a therapist, but she's handling what Sherlock concedes isn't an easy patient with remarkable ease. They really do have only the most qualified people here.

“It is,” she agrees. “Don't overthink it, though. Off the top of your head, try to think of something. It doesn't have to be a period of time if that's too hard. It can be a moment.”

She's been telling him that a lot, in many different ways. Don't overthink it. Easier said than done. Sherlock has been doing nothing else for his entire life, he doesn't know how to stop now.

“The night before I left,” he says after a moment. Knowing that she will want to know more he elaborates, “John came to visit me. I was surprised, I hadn't thought he'd go out of his way to see me that day. It was only a week before he was following, after all.”

“He seems to care about you a lot,” Karla remarks. Sherlock twists his thumbs.

“It does seem so, yes.”

Karla writes something down.

“And when do you think you were the happiest in your life? Again, it doesn't have to be a period.”

This time Sherlock doesn't have to think for long. “I can give you a period. When I was living at Baker Street. When I first moved in, until... I left.”

“Until you faked your death, you mean?” Sherlock nods curtly. “That's when you were living with John, wasn't it?

“Yes.”

“He didn't move in again after your return. How would you say did your time away change your relationship?”

He huffs. “The shorter answer would be how it _didn't_. When I got back, everything was different. It was my own fault. Of course John got on with his life. He had his own place and a soon-to-be fiancée, a normal job. I should have realised he wouldn't remain frozen as he was without me.” He pauses for a moment. “It was... foolish of me to think that nothing would change. That his feelings towards our friendship wouldn't be compromised by my betrayal. The fact that everything was different afterwards was still the best-case scenario. He could have stopped seeing me altogether.”

“Were you still happy during that time? Even though things were different between you?”

“Yes. I was- I still am very grateful that he forgave me at all. Every moment we spent together after my return is not a given. I appreciate all of them.”

It isn't a lie. He cherishes the memories, even the bad ones, even the ones that pain him to relive. They are all he has of John, all he will have if he decides he has had enough again - a possibility Sherlock doesn't exclude. He values them like a treasure.

Karla nods in understanding. “And how are you now, compared to the last few months? How would you describe your emotional state?”

“I would describe myself as content, I suppose,” Sherlock says after a moment of contemplation. “I'm... there are moments when I am happy. There are moments when I'm not. It's been better since I've come here, though. It was... a good idea. It's helping.”

“Content enough to not want to be dead?”

She has been asking that a lot, too. In many different ways. Sherlock still doesn't know.

“I don't have an answer to that,” he says.

“That's alright.” She takes a note. “You seem more relaxed than during your first three appointments.”

“I am,” Sherlock agrees, folding his hands together.

“Is it related to the fact that John and Rosie are here now, do you think?”

Sherlock gives her a look. “Of course it is. Yes.”

She sits back. “Are you happy now?”

“Right now?” he asks, and she nods. Sherlock purses his lips. He thinks of John's smile as he opened the door when he knocked for breakfast, of Rosie's little arms wrapping around his neck when he carried her to the table. The massages they will treat themselves to after his appointment.

“Yes,” he says, surprised by the certainty in his answer.

She nods again. “John seems to have a lot to do with your happiness, to simplify an abstract concept. Would you go as far as saying that it depends on him?”

“Yes,” Sherlock repeats.

“You two seem to have a very close relationship. How would you define this relationship, exactly? What words would you use to label your feelings towards John?”

So this is where today's appointment is headed. Sherlock has to give Karla credit for manoeuvring him into this position.

They have talked about John before, of course, but so far they've only scratched the surface. Apparently she has decided to change course now. Sherlock suspected this would come soon, so he's prepared.

“John is the most important person in my life and I know I have a similar role in his, heightened by the recent loss of his wife and estrangement from family and old friends. While I sometimes find it hard to believe, I know that I am important to him as well. I consider him to be my best friend and anchor. I look to him when I'm in need of guidance or struggle with something on my own.” Sherlock looks at her, and he knows that she's known all along. “I've also been in love with him for the better part of our acquaintance,” he finishes.

She gives him a slight smile; she approves of his honesty. “Have you ever told him about your feelings?”

“Depends on what counts as telling him. I've told him I loved him at his wedding. He knows I consider him family. I never downright said 'John, I am in love with you', but if I had to make a guess then I would say that he knows. He must know. It feels so obvious.”

“What's obvious to you isn't necessarily obvious to others,” Karla points out, and Sherlock almost laughs.

“True,” he concedes. “Still. Everyone seems to know. And sometimes when he looks at me, I think- he must know. There's no way he doesn't.”

“So you believe that your feelings aren't reciprocated?”

“Not in that way, no.”

“How do you feel about telling him the extent of your feelings? This is not a suggestion, merely an idea to contemplate.”

“I have thought about it,” Sherlock replies dryly. “I nearly did it, before my exile.”

“What held you back?”

Sherlock sighs inaudibly. “It wasn't the right moment. It only would have made things worse for John, one way or another. I burdened him with enough.”

“You see your feelings for him as a burden?”

“I didn't say that. It's not- not to me. To him, probably, yes.”

“But you were going to say it, initially? Then you must have thought it was a good idea before.”

“I did. I thought that if it was the last time, I might as well tell him. For the sake of transparency. But he didn't want to hear it. I saw it in his face, it was all wrong. So I didn't.”

“You put his happiness before your own.”

“It didn't matter,” Sherlock insists, narrowing his eyes. “He had enough going on as it was.”

She nods, writing something down. Sherlock twitches in his seat, trying to will his eyes to stay away from the notebook. “And I take it it hasn't come up since, despite your continued sacrifices for him?”

“No.” Sherlock huffs. “Not that those did him any good. His wife is still dead. Everything still went to hell.”

Karla sits back in her chair, giving him a long look. “Did they do _you_ any good?”

“What does it matter? I hardly made sacrifices for _myself,_ that's entirely beside the point.”

Karla tips her pen against her notebook. Sherlock watches the movement. “You said that the last few months have been eventful for you. Correct me if I'm wrong – I'm getting the impressions that most of your actions were motivated by John or his family by extension. Is that right?”

 _I have never made a vow in my life, and after tonight I never will again. From now on, I swear I will always be there. Always. For all three of you._ He swallows. “Yes.”

“I want you to take a moment to think about this. Is there anything you can think of that you've done for yourself, or maybe _haven't_ done to keep yourself happy or safe recently? Take your time,” she adds when she sees his face. Sherlock does. He thinks, and then he puts off having to give an answer because he knows that he won't be able to.

“There's not really anything that would fit those categories,” he says eventually, folding his hands together. He expects a frown, a scolding or disbelief, but Karla just nods and writes something down again, her expression neutrally attentive as ever. It helps to ease the anxiety in his stomach at least a little.

“This realisation makes you uncomfortable. Is it because of the fact itself or because of me?”

“I'm not sure.”

She nods again, then glances at the clock. Impeccable timing as ever. She must have some kind of internal alarm that allows her to determine the exact time. “That's alright. Well, our time is up for now. How do you feel about today's session?”

“Alright. It was fine.” He scratches his neck. “Marginally more exhausting than before.”

“That's understandable,” she says with a nod. Before Sherlock can get out of his seat she adds, “I would like to do a session with you and John together, if you're alright with that.”

Sherlock blinks at her. “I- alright.”

“Do you think this will be a problem?”

“No, if I tell him you asked for it he'll come, I'm sure. I'll ask him.”

“Very good. Then I will hopefully see both of you on Friday.”

Sherlock nods and gets up. “Friday,” he repeats. “See you then.”

* * *

The water ripples where it meets John's chest, creating small waves in time with his breathing. Sherlock is resolutely not looking at him, staring at the wall opposite him instead. They have been doing laps for half an hour and are now resting on the side of the pool, watching other people swim past them. Sherlock's pulse is elevated; he blames it on the physical activity rather than the close proximity to a scarcely clothed John Watson.

He would have sneaked a few glances, once. He did. But it doesn't feel right any longer. Now it's more than just forbidden, it's dangerous. After everything that happened, he would be foolish to put their friendship at risk for carnal instincts. For nothing but a _look._

It is the closest thing to a miracle Sherlock has ever witnessed that they are here at all, together, as friends. One look at John he is going to feel guilty over anyway isn't worth it.

He is so lost in his own thoughts that it takes him a long time to realise that John is quiet beside him as well.

He glances at him, keeping his eyes on his face as he enquires, “Tired?”

John doesn't look at him. “Yeah, I... yeah. Bit tired.”

“Let's shower, then.” He hesitates. “How do you feel about a walk in the gardens afterwards? There's a part you haven't seen before, I think. Lots of flowers.”

John turns his head to look at him. “Alright,” he agrees after a moment. “Sounds good.”

Sherlock picks the most beautiful wing of the park he has been to so far for their walk. It's cool, but the walking keeps them from freezing. The ground is wet from the rain earlier, spattering their shoes with mud, but neither of them cares much.

“I don't do this nearly often enough,” John remarks after a while. “At home, I mean. Just taking a walk. Thinking. I've been seeing more of London's parks since Rosie came, but she's not exactly quiet company.” He glances at Sherlock. “It's nice.”

“I think so too,” Sherlock agrees. He purses his lips, hesitating. They've been talking about everything and nothing, falling into silences now and then. He's been waiting for a good moment to mention it, but he might as well bring it up now. It's not that big of a deal. If he refuses then so be it.

That's what he tells himself, at least.

“You've been quiet,” John observes before Sherlock gets the chance to speak. He looks up.

“Hm?”

“Since your appointment yesterday. You don't have to tell me about it if you don't want to, of course, but you know that you can, right? If there's something you want to talk about.”

Sherlock blinks in surprise. “Oh. Thank you.” John waves him off. He clears his throat. “It was fine. We've been going a little more in depth this time, but it wasn't that much of a revelation, what we talked about. Just a little exhausting, that's all.”

John nods. “Right. I know the feeling. It's the littlest things that can make you feel like that, yeah? Weird. But that probably means that it's good you talked about it, so.” He shrugs, giving him a half smile. “Keep it up, I suppose.”

Sherlock nods as well. “I won't stop now. It's... good. Therapy.” He huffs out a laugh. “Can you believe I'm saying that?”

John gives a small smile, then looks ahead. “Actually I can,” he says, putting his hands in his pockets. “You've changed a lot from when I first met you. Sometimes it just takes us a while to realise these things, I guess.”

Sherlock hums. Then, taking the opportunity, he continues, “Actually, there's something I've been wanting to bring up. It's not- it's just a suggestion. You don't have to if you don't want to.”

John gives him a look from the side. “Do what?”

“My therapist, she suggested that you join me for my next session. We've been talking about you last time, and she thought- we agreed that it might be a good idea. If you're in the mood and have time. I know you have time, actually, but you don't have to come along if that's-”

“Sherlock.”

Sherlock shuts his mouth. “Hm?”

“It's fine. I can... come along. If you really want that.” John looks slightly worried, or maybe that's just Sherlock projecting, because his voice shows no sign of uncertainty.

“I do,” Sherlock confirms. “There's nothing I wouldn't want you to know about. You know all my secrets.”

John looks surprised. “Do I?” he then asks, keeping his tone light, but Sherlock can hear a trace of doubt behind the words. All those years, everything that happened, and he still doubts.

 _All except one,_ Sherlock thinks. _Maybe. You probably just don't want to._ He's not going to say it.

“Yes,” he replies instead, and he thinks it's the truth. John hums, looking ahead. The conversation gives way to silence after that, but it's a good silence.

They walk on.

* * *

“No, Rosie, don't do that. I told you the table isn't for climbing on.”

Rosie, of course, takes no note of Sherlock's warning as she merrily continues heaving herself up the piece of furniture. She is climbing everything these days, and splendidly so - it’s the getting down that's problematic. Sherlock steps behind her and gently supports her bum as she tries to get back to the floor, careful not to let her lose balance.

“That wasn't very smart, Rosamund,” he chastises. She gives him a confused look, and he silently agrees with her disdain. He never liked the sound of it. Funnily enough, he thinks that John doesn't either.

“There you go. Safe on firm ground again.” She gurgles something in his general direction, already much more interested in the bricks she abandoned earlier. He is thankful for her silence. He has proven himself perfectly capable of handling a screaming infant, but that doesn't mean that he wants to. She is a quiet child, and Sherlock knows that John worries sometimes, but he doesn't see anything wrong with it. She is perceptive in her silence. She isn't sad, she's thoughtful. There doesn't always need to be talking. She says a lot more through her quietness than many talkative people. It's almost freeing, not having to chatter and listen in return all the time. To have someone be earnest and unfiltered in what they express, through words or otherwise, even if it is a toddler.

Rosie starts babbling as she builds up towers, then tears them down only to build them up again. She loves repetition, does everything several times if she likes it, and especially if she doesn't in order to find a way to do it right. Sherlock watches her for a moment before he settles back in his chair, taking out his phone. He hasn't been keeping up with things at home since he came here, turning off his email notifications, and so he uses the moment of calm to go through his inbox.

He starts humming as he filters his messages, a low sound to accompany Rosie's babbling rather than drowning it out. He looks up when he sees Rosie stopping her movements from the corner of his eye, turning towards him. He falls silent, quirking an eyebrow. She frowns when he stops, and so he picks up where he left off, giving her a questioning look.

She sits and looks at him for a moment, her little mouth parted in concentration, then heaves herself up and makes her wobbly way over to him. She nearly topples over when she reaches his chair and he catches her by the arm, supporting her until she has found her balance. She sits down by his leg, pressing her warm body to his calf as she listens, clearly captivated. The corner of Sherlock's mouth lifts as he holds her gaze. He changes up the sound, humming around the sudden warmth pooling inside him. He brings his hand to her head, cupping it briefly in his palm as he caresses her.

She is still leaning against him when John returns, blinking at the image presented to him before giving her a smile.

“Hey, darling,” he greets her, bowing down to brush her head the same way Sherlock did just minutes ago. “You having a bit of a cuddle with Sherlock?”

“I've been teaching her about differences in the structure of one's voice when straining the vocal cords,” Sherlock explains.

John's lips twitch. “You mean you've been singing to her?”

“Something like that, yes.” Sherlock eyes him for a moment. “How was your session?”

“Fine, yeah. Good. She's good at her job, you were right. I like her, I think. As far as therapists go.” He looks a little tense, but nothing out of the ordinary. Sherlock has seen him in worse states.

“So do I,” Sherlock agrees. He glances at his phone, feeling oddly disappointed at having to cut the moment short. “Here, Rosie, let me get up, will you? I've got an appointment in fifteen minutes. There we go, good girl.”

“What do you have up next?”

“Hot Stone Massage,” Sherlock says, and John hums.

“Right. God, that was amazing.”

“You could join me,” Sherlock suggests. “I'm sure they have a free place for you.”

“I would, but I actually wanted to step by the gym after I drop Rosie off at the daycare room. Pound it out a little.”

“Everything alright?” Sherlock asks with a slight frown. John nods.

“Yeah, fine. Just, uh, feeling a bit restless after therapy. Got some things to think about.”

“Of course.” Sherlock stands swiftly. “I’ll meet you for dinner at the latest then.”

“Dinner,” John agrees, giving him a genuine smile. “Don't get burned,” he calls after him when he is almost at the door. Sherlock rolls his eyes fondly.

“Yes, Doctor.” He can hear John's huff of laughter behind him, and he leaves the room with a smile.

* * *

Ruth seems to have had enough of her Yoga group, as she joins them for dinner. While she, as everyone else at the clinic, is completely enchanted by Rosie, her focus always lies on John and Sherlock when they eat together. Sherlock knows it's her perceptiveness that has drawn him to her. He knows that she sees more than other people, perhaps more than he would like. Well, nothing to be done about that. He has long felt that the true extent of his feelings is as obvious as a flashing sign.

“Honestly, it wasn't even the worst patient I ever had,” John finishes his story, and Ruth laughs when he quirks an eyebrow in Sherlock's direction with a pointed look.

“I don't know what the hell you are implying, but I take offence,” Sherlock declares haughtily.

John snorts. “Come off it. You're probably the worst patient in the history of patients.”

Sherlock kicks him under the table.

“It's not true,” he insists. Turning to Ruth, he explains, “I had the flu once and I let him feed me soup three times. That is three times more than I usually eat soup _or_ let myself be fed.”

“That's true,” John admits. “It's actually quite useful, you know? While he's still complaining I know that he's fine. Once he starts letting me do my job I get concerned.”

“You make me sound like such a lovely person,” Sherlock says dryly. “Really, John, I am wounded.”

“You are certainly very lovely in your own right,” John says, and Sherlock's heart skips a beat at the sincerity in his voice. He opens his mouth to respond, then clears his throat.

“Well, so are you. I don't let just anyone take care of me.”

John's lips curve up at that. “Yeah, you really don't.”

Sherlock returns the smile, dropping his gaze to his plate. “Also,” he then brings up, “you make it sound like I'm ill all the time, which is blatantly untrue.”

“Well, I _have_ had my fair share of looking after you.”

“Don't pretend like you didn't enjoy it. I'm fairly certain that you have some sort of helper's complex. You're a doctor, after all.”

“Well, can't leave you hanging there sick and in pain, can I?” John's voice is playfully affronted. “You _are_ my best friend.”

A thought crosses Sherlock's mind at that, intrusive and unbidden, momentarily rendering him speechless with its cruelty. _In sickness and in health-_

Sherlock cuts the thought off at the root, berating himself for going there in the first place.

“Ba!”

They all turn to Rosie, who uses the opportunity to cover herself in mush.

“Oh no, Rosie!” John exclaims, taking the spoon from her hand. “Stay,” he mumbles in Sherlock's general direction, who has gotten up to round the table and lend a hand. Frowning at his daughter he says, “Look at the mess you've made. No, don't move, darling, you're getting it everywh- never mind that. We'll have to get you changed now anyway.”

He wipes her chair provisionally before lifting her out of it. She kicks until he lets her down. Ruth snickers as he grabs the used tissues, excusing himself with a sigh.

“We'll be right back,” he says, to which she replies, “Take your time, young man.”

Her gaze rests on John's back as he takes Rosie by the hand to lead her to the lift. Once they are out of sight she turns to Sherlock.

“You're in love with him,” she states plainly, not bothering to phrase it as a question. Sherlock exhales.

“Yes. I am.” He is mildly surprised that it took her so long to say it.

She eyes him up. “Why aren't you telling him?”

“I think he knows,” Sherlock explains for what feels like the hundredth time, though he's only ever said it out loud to Karla. “And if he doesn't, then he doesn't want to.”

She tuts, patting his hand. “It doesn't look that way. You don't see the way he looks at you.”

 _You look sad, when you think he can't see you._ Have they always been running in circles?

But no, this is different.

“I'm the only one he has left, apart from Rosie. That's not love, that's dependence.”

“Could be both. Isn't it the same for you?”

He glances at her. “That doesn't say anything about his feelings. There were opportunities. He didn't take them. If you've eliminated the impossible, whatever remains must be true. It's my job to look at things this way. I'm very good at my job.”

“Oh, I don't doubt it. I just think that sometimes you're too close to see the full picture,” Ruth remarks. After a small pause she adds, “And you never took any of those opportunities either. He might think the exact same thing.”

To that, Sherlock doesn't know what to say. They fall silent, Ruth digging into her food again like nothing happened, Sherlock staring at his plate. His throat feels tight. He isn't mad at Ruth, not exactly, but her insistence that John feels the same way has stirred something in him he would rather have left buried.

Hope.

It's ludicrous, he _knows_ that. And that knowledge just makes it worse.

He thinks about saying more, torn between telling her to mind her own business and spilling everything, but his eyes fall on John and Rosie returning before he can speak. Ruth thankfully doesn't say anything else as well, though her silence is poignant enough.

“Sorry about that,” John apologises as he wrestles Rosie back into her seat before sitting down himself. Sherlock gives him a smile that feels plastered on.

“All cleaned up?” he asks, though he can clearly see the answer.

“Yeah.” John looks from him to Ruth, then back to Sherlock. Sherlock can see the question forming in his mind. “Everything alright?”

“Splendid. Shall I get Rosie another portion?”

“Yeah, she didn't eat a lot of the first one.” John gives him a scrutinising look, but then lets it slide. “Thanks.”

“I'll be right back,” Sherlock says and gets up. When he returns they resume the conversation between the three of them as if nothing happened. If Sherlock is a little quieter than before, neither Ruth nor John comments on it.

It is later on, when Rosie is fast asleep and John has joined him in his living room that he finds himself caught under his thoughtful gaze.

“You were a bit quiet with Ruth there when I came back,” John remarks, keeping his tone light. “Everything alright?”

“Yes. Of course.”

John purses his lips when he doesn't offer any more information. “Did you two argue?” he asks, clearly unsure whether his enquiries are welcome.

“No. It was nothing. Forget it.”

John swallows, then tears his eyes from Sherlock and looks at his hands. “Sorry, didn't mean to pry like that.”

Sherlock exhales. “You didn't.”

“I just worry about you, is all.”

Sherlock's eyes shoot up. “Don't ever apologise for that,” he says, just so managing to keep his voice from wavering. John looks up, meeting his gaze.

“Alright. Well, if you want to talk...”

“I know where to find you,” Sherlock finishes for him. He smiles, small but genuine this time. “Don't worry about it. Or me.”

John holds his gaze, then nods. “Easier said than done, sometimes,” he says to the wall, taking a sip of his tea. Sherlock wonders why they can never say these things to each other's face.

“I know the feeling,” he murmurs, raising his cup to his lips.

They drink their tea in silence.

* * *

“I'm glad you could make it, John,” Karla says with a smile, pointing towards the sofa. “Please, have a seat.”

John hesitantly lowers himself next to Sherlock. “Thanks.”

“How are you both today?”

“Fine.”

“And you, John?”

“Yeah, fine. Tired. Rosie kept me up a little last night, she can't fall asleep sometimes.” He pauses, flexing his hand. “Makes it hard for me to keep a sleeping rhythm like a normal person.”

“Have you had trouble sleeping before Rosie?” Karla enquires.

“Yes. Loads, actually. Nightmares, insomnia on especially bad days, all that. It actually got a bit better when we were living together,” he says, shooting a glance at Sherlock. His fingers knot together as he speaks. “Which is ironic, with how we used to stay up for days and run around London in the middle of the night all the time.”

The memories bring a smile to Sherlock's face, despite the surge of yearning they ignite in his stomach.

“That does sound exhausting. It's no surprise you had no trouble sleeping with days like that.”

“Yeah, you're probably right. Although life with Rosie isn't any less exhausting, really.” He huffs out a laugh that comes out a little nervously.

“A child changes the dynamic of your life in unexpected ways.”

“Yeah.” John swallows, tensing his shoulders. “I'm sorry, this-” he gesticulates between the three of them- “isn't supposed to be about me, is it? It's Sherlock's session. I shouldn't- this has nothing to do with him.”

“Don't be ridiculous. Everything about you has to do with me.”

John looks at him unmovingly, then averts his gaze. “Right.”

Sherlock's stomach churns uncomfortably. John has fallen silent, his eyes wandering over the wall behind Karla, and Sherlock, not knowing what to say, doesn't speak either. Karla lets the silence stretch, clearly giving them the opportunity to say something.

Neither of them does.

Sherlock taps the armrest in time with the seconds ticking by. This is the most uncomfortable he has been in John's presence since they rebuilt the flat. It's a sensation he hasn't missed.

“Sorry,” John says into the silence, ripping him from his thoughts. He turns his head in surprise.

“About what?”

He gives him a look. “That. Reacting that way. You were being honest, and I was being an arse. So. Sorry about that.”

“It's fine,” Sherlock says automatically, bewildered. Karla gives them an approving look.

“I'm not good at these things. Talking. Especially about myself,” John explains when he catches her eyes, shrugging his tense shoulders.

“That's fine. You're doing very well. We don't have to talk about anything either of you isn't ready for. As long as you're talking, I'm content.”

John glances at Sherlock again, relaxing slightly at his encouraging nod. “Right. Good.”

And from then on, it gets easier. They don't go deep, barely scratching an analytic surface. But John's shoulders loosen as Karla engages them in a conversation that she somehow manages to coordinate from the background, and when their hour draws to a close Sherlock has a feeling that they might get somewhere with this. In time.

Luckily, they have nothing but.

“I think this was a good session,” Karla says when their time is up. “I'd like to see you both again, if you're up for it.”

Sherlock glances at him. “John?” he asks hesitantly. John licks his lips, blinking at a point just left of his shoulder.

“I'm-” He clears his throat. “This isn't easy for me.”

“That's alright. Therapy is rarely about doing things that come easily to you.”

He huffs out a laugh. “Right.” He runs a hand over his face, then looks at Sherlock. “I'll come,” he decides, swallowing at the small smile Sherlock offers. “Same time next week?”

“Yes.” Karla gets up, offering him her hand. “I look forward to seeing you again.” She also shakes Sherlock's hand. “And I'll see you on Wednesday.”

They leave her office together, coming to a halt before the closed door. “Step by the spa?” Sherlock asks, and John groans immediately.

“God, yes. Lead the way.”

* * *

It's been two weeks now. Two weeks and three days since he has left London, to be precise. It's strange, being so completely cut off from his everyday life. Sherlock is quite surprised that he hasn't grown excruciatingly bored yet, but then again, he has been keeping busy with various activities and a ton of research on beekeeping. And he has John and Rosie with him, the only thing he really struggles to live without when away from home.

It's not enough to distract him from the hollowness that catches up with him sometimes, even here. Not always, not all the time. Not today. But that's okay, Karla says. Sherlock thinks so too. It's better than it was before he came here, which he supposes is an improvement. It's alright.

“It's quite alright, don't you think?” he asks. Rosie, sitting on his chest, looks up.

“Daddy?”

“He's getting heat therapy for his shoulder, Rosie. He'll be back in a bit, just wait a little.”

Rosie gives him a doubtful look, but decides that the matter is not worth crying over. Instead she rolls over and pushes the book she's been looking at to the floor.

“Don't do that,” Sherlock scolds her, trying to reach for it from his lying position. Rosie moves with him, and he reflexively reaches out to hold her.

“Watch out. We don't want you falling, it's quite painful.”

He would know. The thought wrings a dry laugh from him.

“It's nothing,” he says when Rosie gives him a scrutinising look. She babbles something to herself, patting his chin with her chubby hand before curling it into a fist, pounding on her book. Sherlock is not sure what she is trying to achieve, but she is putting considerable effort into it.

“Come on, let's look at that again,” he says when he starts to fear for her hands. She nods enthusiastically when he takes the book from her, and Sherlock pulls himself into a sitting position with a sigh. It's only the fifth time he's going through it today, he's had worse. Rosie settles in on his lap, wriggling her foot as he opens the book.

“Where did you put your sock?” he asks with a frown. She gives him an innocent look, and he sighs again. “Your daddy's not going to like this. He's very particular about wearing two socks at a time, I don't know why. Never mind, you don't care. Neither do I. I'll look for it later.”

“Read!”

“Yes, your majesty,” he mumbles. “Billy goes to the beach,” he begins to read, then stops. “You know what, I can't do this. Not again. I haven't been at a beach in a long time. Not for fun, anyway.”

Rosie frowns at him, pushing a few fingers into her mouth. “You've never been at a beach either. You haven't seen the sea yet. It is quite remarkable, if I do say so myself. Here, hold on.” He puts the book down and takes out his phone, typing in his search request out of the reach of Rosie's curious fingers.

“There, see that?” He plays a video of the sea, watching her face as she looks at it. Her eyes are wide. She stops chewing on her hand, entirely focused on the waves crashing on the beach. “It's even better in real life,” Sherlock explains. “The air smells different, and the ground feels funny underneath your feet. The water is very salty, you have to be careful not to get it into your eyes, but it's fun to play with.”

They watch a few more clips before he hears the door being opened.

“Hey, you two,” John greets them.

“Hey yourself,” Sherlock says, giving him a smile. He doesn't want to acknowledge how the sadness that's been sitting in his chest lifts ever so slightly at John's return. “How was heat therapy?”

“Marvellous. It's great stuff.” He steps closer, running a hand over Rosie's head as he leans in to glance at his phone. “What are you watching?”

“Some clips of the sea. I was just telling Rosie about it. I think we should take a trip there soon, you've been here for over a week and she still hasn't seen it.”

“You're right.” John scratches his head. “I'd actually really like to see the sea again as well. It's been ages since I went there on holiday.”

“For me too.” They look at each other for a moment. John bites his lip.

“The next three days are pretty full for Rosie and me, but what about Monday? What do you have on then?”

“Nothing I couldn't cancel.”

“I've got counselling, but I could try and reschedule that for after breakfast. We could go after lunch and stay the rest of the day.”

Sherlock nods. “That sounds good.” He looks at Rosie leafing through her book and smiles. “She's going to love it.”

* * *

“You're quiet today.”

Sherlock looks up from his hands, raising his eyebrow. “More so than usual, you mean?”

Karla nods. “It's your decision what you want to talk about and what not, but there seems to be something on your mind. Let me remind you that this is a safe space where you can discuss things freely.”

Sherlock huffs. “You already know what's on my mind.” It always is, after all. “It's about John.”

Karla crosses her legs. “Did something happen between you two?”

“Nothing happened.” He releases a deep breath. “We were having dinner with one of the other guests the other night. When John left to take care of Rosie she talked to me about my feelings for him. And... that she thinks he returns them.”

It's harder to say it out loud than he expected. He only realises now how much these thoughts have been weighing him down, sitting on his chest like a stone.

“And that made you uncomfortable?”

Sherlock closes his eyes. It is trying today, opening up. It feels like he's physically hurting himself.

But he's promised himself he'd make an effort.

“It made me hopeful,” he gets out. “Despite knowing that it's foolish and useless. I've been over it a hundred times, there's no point in thinking that there might be something after all.”

He falls silent, forcing the breath past the tightness in his throat.

“Are you angry at yourself for getting your hopes up?”

Sherlock jerks his head in a nod. Karla just looks at him until he squirms in his chair.

“It's stupid,” he says when the silence grows unbearable. “To get like this over it. It doesn't matter anyway.”

“It's not stupid if that's what you're feeling. Your emotions do matter.”

Sherlock sucks his lip in, biting it until he winces.

“You don't agree?” Karla asks when he doesn't say anything. He lifts his shoulders in a half-shrug.

“I don't know what to say to that,” he eventually allows when it becomes clear that she won't speak first.

“That's alright. We're here to work it out together. From what you've been talking about in our sessions I get the feeling that you don't prioritise your own emotions, in general. Would you say that's correct?”

“I suppose,” Sherlock lets on. “It doesn't matter, in the grand scheme of things. There are more important things.”

“What do you consider more important?”

 _Anything._ “The work,” Sherlock settles on. “Mastering the skills I need in order to do it right. My intellect.”

“John,” Karla says into the following silence. It's not a question. Sherlock nods.

“Yes.”

“You said that you gave up a lot for John's happiness. So you prioritise his feelings?”

“Of course. Yes. I want him to be happy.”

She nods. “If he were to be irrationally emotional about something, in your opinion, would you fault him for that?”

Sherlock narrows his eyes. He knows where she is going with this. He ties his hands together. “Of course not,” he says quietly.

“So you acknowledge that his emotions are valid. Why do you think you can't do the same for your own?”

Sherlock resists the urge to flee the room. “It's different.”

“Why is it different?”

Her voice is gentle. Sherlock can't hold her gaze. “I don't know.”

“You look conflicted. Can you explain what you're feeling right now?”

“I'm- unwilling. To talk about this. Anger. Confusion. Embarrassment,” he lists, his tone clipped. If he detaches himself from the situation he'll be able to handle it.

Then again, isn't that exactly her point? He feels something, and he tries to stifle it before it can grow into something bigger than him. He doesn't let the emotions exists because he doesn't want them to. Not that it ever works out. So he always ends up with a mess of repression and emotion that he doesn't know how to handle any more than his initial emotional response. All of that hassle, taking up so much time and energy.

It's not worth it.

“You're thinking. What's on your mind?”

Sherlock worries his lip, then decides to just tell her. She nods encouragingly as he lets her in on his thought process.

“That's very good. It's a good starting point. Can you explain to me what exactly you mean when you say that it's not worth it?”

Sherlock releases a slow breath. His heart is beating uncomfortably in his chest. He desperately wishes for the session to be over, but no such luck. “Acknowledging and dealing with my emotions often does not seem worth the hassle, let alone prioritising them. If I knew how to do that in the first place.”

Karla regards him steadily. “You mean you're not worth the hassle?”

Sherlock swallows. He blinks a few times before he finally looks her in the eye. “I don't know. That's not- I'm not sure. I don't know.”

“Don't try to force yourself to make sense of it. The first step is acknowledging that there's something to talk about there.”

“I do.”

“Good. This is something we have to work on, but first you have to understand it. If you're not treating your own feelings the same way you would treat John's, you are being unfair to yourself. You are putting yourself down. Do you see the injustice you're doing yourself by disregarding your own feelings and viewing them as less valid?”

Sherlock nods once. Karla smiles. “You're doing very well, Sherlock. This is good progress, even if it might not feel like it right now. I would like you to think about what we talked about today until our next session, alright? Don't stress yourself, just think about it. We can talk it all out here.”

“Alright.” Sherlock swallows. “I will.”

* * *

“Of all the things I imagined us doing together, this somehow wasn't one of them.”

Sherlock, ignoring the direction his thoughts inevitably turn, hums in response, mindful not to move his face. “I can't believe you've never treated yourself to a facial.”

“It just somehow never crossed my mind,” John replies. Sherlock sighs.

“You've been missing out.” He glances at John when he catches him moving from the corner of his eye. “Stop touching your face.”

“It feels weird,” John defends himself, wiping his sticky fingers on a towel.

“Just lie back and relax. The mask will be dry in a few minutes.”

“It's uncomfortable. Don't you think so? I can't move my face.”

“You're not supposed to move it. You're supposed to lie back and be still.”

A slight pause. Then, “It _is_ weird.”

Sherlock rolls his eyes. “ _John._ ”

They look at each other, and suddenly they are both giggling, masks be damned.

“I can't believe this,” John gets out. “What are we doing? A few weeks back, if someone had told me we'd be getting facials together while on holiday in the countryside, I would have told them they're crazy. It's just so... unlikely, that we got here. And yet here we are.”

“I know.” Sherlock can't help but smile. “It feels a bit like old times, doesn't it?”

John quirks an eyebrow before remembering the mask on his face and settling back into a neutral expression. “I can't recall us going to health resorts in the old times.”

“Not that part,” Sherlock replies with a fond roll of his eyes. “I mean you and me. Doing something together. I... miss it.”

He feels John's eyes on him, tries not to wind under his gaze. He's giving acknowledging his feelings and handling them responsibly a try, like Karla suggested. If he can't be honest with John, he can't be with anyone.

“It's not quite like the old times, you know,” John remarks. “You never used to be this forthcoming about this sort of stuff.”

Sherlock turns his head to look at him. “Karla and I have been talking about my emotions, and she thinks I ought to acknowledge them more. So I'm trying to be open about them, John.” He pauses, averting his gaze as he leans back again. “I think it would do us both good.”

“Yeah,” John agrees after a moment of silence. “Yeah, you're right. I'm making an effort, though.”

“I know. So am I.”

He can see John's lips turning up in a smile from the corner of his eye. “I think we're doing quite well, all things considered. You and me both.”

Sherlock hums in acknowledgement. “I agree.”

They both fall silent, each pondering their own thoughts, but it's an easy silence. Comfortable.

“You know what, I think this is working. This is the most relaxed I've been in months.”

Sherlock turns with a smile, not caring about the hardening mask on his face in the slightest. “Just wait until we get to the massages.”

John laughs. “I look forward to it,” he says. Sherlock leans back and closes his eyes, letting the sound of his voice wash through him.

* * *

Miraculously it is a dry day when they decide to go to the beach. John's appointment is easily rescheduled, and they leave after lunch in the car Mycroft has provided them with. They've asked around and decided on Carbis Bay, which looks stunning on the pictures they looked up.

It's a short ride, which both Sherlock and John are thankful for with a toddler in the car.

They find a parking spot directly at the beach, and once Sherlock has parked the car they just look for a moment.

“Wow,” John says quietly.

“Yes,” Sherlock agrees. “Quite something, isn't it?” He watches the waves crash on the shore, feeling the pull to the water he could never quite explain. “Come on,” he says, smiling at John from the side. “Let's show her.”

John takes Rosie out of her seat while Sherlock grabs their bag, and together they turn to the water. The beach spreads out as miles and miles of fine, white sand beneath them.

“Hold on,” John says and puts Rosie down. It's a cool day, slightly windy, but it's warm enough to take their shoes off. John slips out of his first, peeling off his socks and putting them in the car. Sherlock does the same when he gives him an encouraging look. John takes off Rosie's shoes in the meantime, and they each end up taking one of her hands before they start walking.

Rosie is ecstatic about the unfamiliar feeling of the beach beneath her feet. She squats as soon as they stop a few steps into the beach to grab at the fine sand. She turns her attention to the sea after a few seconds, rising to jump towards the water. John follows her, a hand hovering near her. Sherlock watches her face as she takes in the image presented to her. She seems intimidated by the water, staring at the waves in silent wonder. But she isn't backing off, instead taking a hesitant step forwards.

“Daddy?”

“I'm here, love,” John says, holding out his hand to her. She takes it, letting him lead her to the point where the water meets the sand. It's too cold to go in, but he allows her to stay as the water licks at her feet. She screeches, wriggling her legs. Sherlock can't contain his smile at the pure, unadulterated curiosity and joy at discovering something new. It is beautiful, watching her learn something. She is so eager for knowledge, absorbing it the way that is so characteristic for children. Most adults have unlearned this trait, forgotten among the sea of endless clutter they engage with every day. It is refreshing to be reminded of it sometimes.

John takes Rosie back to the dry sand when he deems her feet too cold. The sand sticks to her feet as she pads down the beach and, Sherlock notices, to John's as well. The sight is strangely endearing.

“How are you liking the sea, Rosie?” Sherlock asks, brushing her wind-tousled hair out of her forehead as she looks up at him. “Is it nice?”

“Nice! Very nice,” she agrees, and he smiles.

“Thought so. I wanted to be a pirate when I was younger, you know? That's someone who lives on a ship that is always on the sea. Someone who has a lot of adventures.”

“You still do,” John remarks.

“Quiet, John.”

“Watch it,” John says, but he's grinning. His eyes move from Sherlock's face over their surroundings. They aren't the only people by far, but there's an air of solitude to this place. Or maybe, Sherlock thinks to himself, it's John who is giving him that feeling. His focus lies on their group of three, entirely disregarding the people around them.

“It's gorgeous,” John states.

Sherlock follows his gaze to the endless white beach. “It goes on for miles.”

John looks at him. “Let's take a walk?”

“Yes.”

They each take one of Rosie's hands again. They go slowly, allowing Rosie to set the pace. She kicks her feet in the sand, babbling happily as it dusts around her. Sherlock watches her steps, hyper-aware of her little hand in his and John on the other side. But part of his brain is stuck on the image they present to the people around them, to anyone who sees them. It's not one of two friends. It is that of two fathers with their daughter, no doubt. A happy family.

The worst part is, he feels it. It's not what they are, not in that way, but he feels it in his very bones, the sense of belonging, togetherness. This is his family, the one he chooses and the one that matters. They are family, and yet they aren't. He loves John, more than anything. He loves Rosie. Maybe not like his own, but it's the closest he thinks he can get. Sherlock both loves and hates it, and he hates himself for feeling this way. For feeling at all.

He has no right to feel this way about her, about the three of them. It's not his place, and yet he fits in it so effortlessly. The resulting guilt and joy rage in him, leaving nothing but a bone-deep exhaustion.

Karla is going to have a field day when he talks about this in his next session.

The wind is getting stronger. Sherlock brushes his tousled hair out of his eyes, catching John's gaze.

“Alright?” he asks quietly, the wind carrying his voice away, and Sherlock watches him for a moment before nodding and looking away.

They have been doing great at opening up, but John understands that he can't always do that, better than anyone. They are similar in that.

It is still beautiful at the beach. They stay for a few hours, settling down on a towel they brought when Rosie decides that she's had enough and drops down where she stands. John watches his daughter, and when he doesn't he alternates between Sherlock and the sea. Sherlock doesn't dare watching him and Rosie too closely, not with the feeling sitting in his chest making it difficult to breathe. He watches the sea, thinks about himself and life and the people next to him, how unlikely it is for them to be here, and how beautiful it is that they are anyway.

“I'm glad you decided to come with me,” he says, not taking his eyes from the sea. He can see John turning his head from the corner of his eye.

“Me too,” he says after a moment. He shifts his hand, resting it so close to Sherlock's on the towel that their skin is touching. The smallest point of contact, as innocent in its nature as it can be. Sherlock takes it, saves it in his memory and puts it in his mind palace for safekeeping.

They pack up when all the biscuits they brought are devoured, slowly making their way back to the car. Both of them stop when they get back to where they started, unwilling to leave this place behind just yet. While it's a source of melancholy as well as comfort for Sherlock, he can appreciate the good parts, and it genuinely seems to brighten John's mood. Not to mention that Rosie is enjoying herself like nobody's business. She is on her knees, digging into the sand with her hands while the two adults stare at the sea.

John crouches down when she starts waving fistfuls of sand around, watching so that she doesn't put any of it in her mouth. His hair is mussed from the wind, but his focus lies on his daughter. His hand is on her back as he talks to her in a gentle voice. Sherlock looks down to the two of them, feeling the wind blowing through his own hair, and his heart aches with how much he loves them.

He feels strangely exhausted for the calm afternoon he's had, another sign that he isn't as young as he used to be, but he thinks that this is worth it. It's all worth it.

John looks up and catches his eye when he lowers himself as well.

“It was a good idea, taking her here,” he says to Sherlock, giving him a genuine smile.

“Thank you for coming along,” Sherlock replies. They look at each other for the span of a heartbeat, their eyes locking as the wind whistles around them, and in that moment, they seem to understand each other perfectly. No words. No questions, no pain of the past lingering. Just them, John and Sherlock, knowing without having to say it.

Rosie coos, and John's eyes linger on Sherlock's for a second longer before he returns his attention to his daughter. They leave soon after that, John appeasing Rosie with quiet kisses to her head while Sherlock puts her shoes back on. She falls asleep in her seat after mere minutes, and then it's silent inside the car. It's a good silence. It's healing. Sherlock appreciates it while he drives.

The memory of John's eyes is etched into his mind. It stays with him the whole ride back.


	3. Away II

Sherlock has been quiet. He knows that he has, and he knows that John knows. He sees it in the looks he gives him, feels it in the brush of his hand as he puts it on his shoulder in passing.

He is fighting the heavy mood he was so immersed in that it was normal back home. It's not the first time he's doing it, and it won't be the last time, and he isn't particularly worried. It's not that he is so sad that he wants to die. He's not even sure if he is sad at all. He is just thinking, a lot. There's a lot of input he needs to process, about himself and John. It brings with it the bleak heaviness he is so familiar with. But it's fine. He knows that it's the kind of heaviness that needs time. Out here, he has nothing but.

John doesn't mother him, doesn't press him to talk about it. He doesn't watch him in overt concern. But Sherlock knows that his mind is on him.

“A walk?” he suggests in the afternoon, and Sherlock agrees and gets his coat.

It's surprisingly warm outside. Sherlock turns his face to the sun, idly wondering when the last time he got a tan was.

John doesn't try to engage him in conversation. He is a quiet presence by his side, sometimes nodding towards a flower or a squirrel, leading the way, but otherwise silent company. Sherlock listens to his breathing, watches the light catch on the strands of his hair, more silver than blond these days. He listens to the sound of their steps, a calm rhythm that resonates in his heartbeat.

Before an old oak, Sherlock stops. He can feel John's eyes on him, but he himself is looking at the sky. Two birds are moving in the air, orbiting each other in a strange dance.

“I'm okay,” Sherlock says. He really is.

John licks his lips and nods. “Good. I'm glad.”

Neither of them says any more on the subject. They soon resume their walking, enjoying the peace the gardens offer.

If their hands brush against each other once or twice, neither of them mentions it.

* * *

Time seems to pass differently here in the countryside. The days feel long and filled, but Sherlock isn't stressed by the end of them, he's worn out in a good, productive way.

They fall into a routine before they know it. Sherlock talks about his mood to Karla, and is surprised to find that he actually feels lighter afterwards. They go to breakfast, do physical activities and wellness treatments, counselling, dinner, and late evenings spent in each other's company just like old times, only now with a small, lively addition bustling around them – it takes over their lives so thoroughly that London soon seems far away, and with it the trauma they left behind there.

It is deceptive, the routine. It lures Sherlock in day after day, with the calm it offers in the long run. It's a treacherous thing, the calm. It doesn't prepare Sherlock for the storm in the slightest. When the storm comes, it comes silently. Without warning.

He is sitting on the sofa in John's room when it happens. He offered to look after Rosie during John's counselling appointment. She has fallen asleep after only twenty minutes, thoroughly exhausted by the daily programme keeping her on her toes. Sherlock has put her to bed, gently stroking her hair as he watched her face, peaceful in sleep, before retreating to the living room. Absorbed in the book on apiculture he brought along, he doesn't notice John staying away far longer than usual. He only looks up when he arrives almost an hour later than he should have, not meeting his eyes as he closes the door with a slow, careful movement.

What he does notice is the unnatural silence. The hands clenched to fists at John's sides, the barely suppressed trembling. The red rim of his eyes when he finally turns to him, doing nothing to conceal his emotional state.

Sherlock lets the book sink. “John. What-”

John's face contorts at the sound of his voice and he falls silent, staring at him for a moment before putting the book down, hesitantly getting up. John doesn't react when he approaches him, his gaze on the floor. Sherlock can see his jaw clenching.

“John?” he asks, reaching for his arm, but John flinches away from the touch. He drops his hand, looking at him in silence.

“Don't.”

Sherlock holds up his hands in surrender, taking a slow step back. “Alright.”

John still looks far too tense. Sherlock forces himself to take back step after step until he's back at the sofa, bringing as much distance between them as he can. His eyes are fixed on John's trembling form.

“John,” he says, and John makes a tortured sound deep in his throat. Sherlock's stomach sinks. “Talk to me,” he asks, swallowing down the questions burning on his tongue. “Please.”

John inhales sharply. It takes several deep breaths before he can bring himself to look at him.

“How do you do it? Stick around, pretend like nothing ever happened? Put up with me?”

Sherlock stares at him. “What?”

John puts his hands on his hips, facing away from him as he paces back and forth. Then he abruptly turns to Sherlock. “I never even fucking apologised, did I?”

Sherlock shakes his head. “For _what_?”

“For beating you to a bloody pulp, Sherlock!”

Sherlock's mouth drops open, but no sound comes out. John goes on anyway, not waiting for a reply. The dam has clearly broken, the words come pouring out in a flood, swamping Sherlock like a high tide.

“Jesus. I'm a fucking monster. I did that to you and just kept calling myself your friend afterwards. I tried to justify it to myself. I tried to rationalise something unforgivable. And I didn't even think to say _sorry_. What are you still doing with me, hm? Why didn't you tell me to go to hell?” He releases a shuddering breath. “I don't- I shouldn't have come here. Jesus fucking- why the hell did you _ask_ me to come? What am I even doing, you're the most bloody important person in my life and I beat you up like a fucking abusive arsehole-”

“Stop,” Sherlock says quietly. “You're not an abuser, John,” he cuts him off before he can go on. “Why would you even say that?”

John seems to deflate at Sherlock's anger. “I was, though,” he says calmly, though Sherlock can see the magnitude of his emotions beneath the mask of the soldier. “In that moment I was your abuser. And that's not the only time I've treated you like shit.” He wavers, catching his balance on the edge of the table. “God, I bloody- I hit you when you returned. After your death. I went back to Mary after she fucking shot you in the chest. _Don't_ tell me it was surgery,” he hisses when Sherlock opens his mouth. “I'm not an idiot. I know it wasn't. Deep down I always knew, and I went back anyway.”

He swallows, his breathing too loud in the sudden heavy silence. Sherlock tries to take a deep breath and fails. “I don't know what you want me to say,” he finally gets out.

John releases a deep breath. “I don't know either,” he says. “I want to apologise. I want your forgiveness, but I can't even ask for it because I'm not sure I deserve it.” His jaw twitches. “I want to understand why you just accepted what I did to you. I blamed you for things you had no control over. I made you responsible for Mary's death. I don't understand why you never said anything. That stuff is unforgivable, Sherlock, it's completely off limits and yet you're still acting like it's all fine, and it's not. It's bloody not. Never. Under no circumstances. You let me get away with that. You let me become a monster.” His voice is down to a whisper now, and this is worse than shouting. This is so, so much worse.

“I want to know why you did that to yourself. You still do, by keeping me around like nothing ever happened. Why you never bloody stood up for yourself.” His voice breaks on the last word and he winces, covering his face with his hand for a moment. “And now I'm blaming you for my mistakes. Again.”

Sherlock opens his mouth to reply, to say something, anything, and finds himself lost for words. His mind is blank, racing through John's words and coming up with nothing in return.

“I never saw it that way,” he finally gets out.

“I know,” John says tonelessly. “And I think that's the root of the problem.”

Sherlock, unable to look at him any longer, scowls at his thighs. He flinches when John takes his knotted hands in his, gently easing the tension. The brush of his fingers is feather-light, like he's touching something he isn't allowed to. Sherlock swallows, raising his eyes to somewhere on John's chest.

“What can I say to make this alright? What do you want me to say?”

“Nothing. I don't know, I'm not- I can't do this. I don't know how to do this.”

“Neither do I,” Sherlock whispers.

“You don't have to make anything alright, Sherlock. I know you always try to do that, I can see that now. But you don't have to, and you shouldn't. This is on me to make right.” He inhales deeply, a shaking breath. “I want you to understand this, because you're important to me.” The pause is deafening. “You deserve someone better. You deserve better, Sherlock.”

“I don't want better,” Sherlock says, feeling like a child. The quiver in his voice is dreadfully exposing. “I just want you.”

The look John is giving him breaks something open in Sherlock. He tries to breathe around it, tries not to fall apart where he sits. Every breath he draws hurts. “And that's exactly the point.”

The tears gather and fall before Sherlock knows how to stop them. He tries to stay silent, breathing a forced rhythm as he worries his lip. One, two three. One, two, three.

John is on his knees. John's arms are around him, too light, too cautious.

Sherlock is terrified that it's the last time.

He distantly registers John's thick voice telling him to breathe and so he forces the air into his lungs and back out, in and out, until he stops shaking. He clings to John like a lifeline, feeling cracks forming on his insides from the combined strength of the guilt and want that are raging inside him.

“I don't want to give you up. I can't do that.”

John draws back, putting that hateful distance between them again.

“You can. And you should.”

Sherlock draws a painful breath. “No. Don't ask this of me. Not again. I would do anything for you, but you can't ask that of me again. I won't get through it another time.”

John regards him with a sadness too deep for Sherlock to comprehend, entirely consumed by his own. “You understand that I don't _want_ to give you up, don't you? I don't want you to move on from me, and that makes me even more of a monster than I already am. _Jesus_.”

“Stop,” Sherlock says again, cutting him off. “Don't say that. You're not a monster.”

John purses his lips. His gaze drops to the ground. “Okay. Alright, never mind that now. The thing is, I've been bungling this for too long. I don't know if it's still salvageable, if we should even try, but if we do, then we need to resolve that. We can't go on like nothing ever happened. I need to own up to what I did, and you deserve something better. And we need to make sure we're both clear that something like that will never, ever happen again. Are we on the same page there?”

Sherlock nods once. “It's not impossible,” he says, holding John's gaze. “We've been through worse, haven't we?”

“Yes, we have,” John agrees, looking pained. Then he swallows, setting his jaw before folding his hands together.

“We need to talk about this. With someone else. We need to get help for this to work. We can't do it on our own.”

“Alright,” Sherlock agrees readily. He would do anything if it meant keeping this relationship alive, John must know that.

He nods. “We have another double session tomorrow, don't we? Maybe we should book a few more.”

“I'll go to the front desk,” Sherlock offers. “I'll take care of it. We can go as often as you like.”

John nods. “Okay. We'll work through it.” He purses his lips. “I don't think it's going to be easy for either of us. But I'm going to work as hard as I have to. I promise you that.”

“Alright,” Sherlock agrees. “It will work out. It will be enough.”

John holds his gaze before he looks away, nodding once. He doesn't say what they're both thinking; that they hope it will be.

* **

In some ways today is worse than the previous sessions. In some ways it's easier. It seems that with John's breakdown the dam between them has broken too; a lot of dirty water is flooding out, but it flows easily now, and everything is clearer afterwards.

They only have to get to the afterwards.

Sherlock has experienced emotional work physically weighing him down before, but never to this extent. Talking about this feels excruciating, like actual physical labour. It is hard, really hard, among the hardest things he has ever had to do, and he can tell that it isn't much easier for John. But, and that is the most important part, he is trying. He really is trying. And it's the worst session Sherlock has ever had, but despite the hardship he feels like they are getting somewhere. Moving forwards, at least.

It seems to do them good. Sherlock didn't notice the morgue incident standing between them, but he can see now that the air is being cleared that it was always there somehow, in some way.

John, who has avoided looking at Sherlock in the beginning, is now glancing at him for support. Sherlock knows what an honour that is – to be let in on John's weakest moment, to be allowed to guide him. He holds his gaze when John catches his eyes, nodding quietly, and that seems to decide it. John talks. He looks like he's in pain, and his fists clench so hard his knuckles are white, but he talks. He looks at Sherlock and tells him things they have never said out loud before, and it seems that once they have started, they can't stop. They talk about the first night they met. About the fall, especially about the fall. About Sherlock's return, and how it always felt like it was just a little too late to both of them. They don't go into why, not today, but it's good, to finally just acknowledge it.

They have years of baggage, Sherlock quickly realises. And it's going to take a lot more than one excruciating session to work through that. They don't even go anywhere near the morgue incident yet.

But they are both willing to try, and that, he thinks, is the main part. Everything else will follow.

Apart from their shared sessions every other day, they each carry on with their individual counselling. They go about their activities as usual, play with Rosie and have dinner with Ruth, but it feels different.

It's like the ties that have been holding them in their respective positions have been cut, and now they are drifting, still trying to find their right place and distance.

Therapy helps. What really grounds them, though, are their private conversations. They usually happen at night, when Rosie has been put to bed and they share the sofa, or each sit in a chair when the proximity feels too close.

They talk about everything and anything that comes to mind. They listen to each other speaking, searching for words, and sometimes sitting in silence when the tears are falling freely. It's about the fall, always, one way or another, and Sherlock realises for the first time just how bad the damage it has done was, on both sides. They talk about Sherlock's journey through Europe and half of the States, of his capture and the torture he had to endure. It's about John's loneliness, the lure of the gun he still has sitting in his bedside table. It's about the drugs, what they did to either of them, why Sherlock turned to them in the first place.

It's about Mary, about misplaced guilt and regret and the grief they both feel that neither of them really knows what to do with. It's about Irene Adler, and though neither of them calls it jealousy it's about the way John felt when she was around. It's about Sherlock finally deciding that he's had enough and telling John that he's gay in those exact words. It's stunned silence, a shake of heads and suddenly laughter, so hard that they both end up wiping tears from their eyes.

It's about a deep melancholy neither of them calls by name, about lingering gazes that convey the only thing neither of them ever brings up, although Sherlock, for the first time, feels like it might be alright if they did, some day.

It is the most open and forthcoming either of them have ever been, not just with each other, but at all. This is also labour; it's like extracting something from so deep within him that it's tearing open every part of him.

And after they are torn open, they can heal. Sherlock says as much one night, almost two weeks after the bomb went off. John, sitting opposite him, agrees.

“I didn't know if it would work,” he says. “I honestly didn't know. And I don't know what I would have done if it hadn't. But I think-” He pauses, then nods. “I really think it is working. We're better, aren't we?”

They are. They are moving forwards. Slowly but surely they are making their way through the uncertainty, through years and years of unresolved tension and grudges, to finally head in the right direction.

* * *

If someone had told Sherlock that he would start taking long walks in his free time, he would have scoffed. He sees the benefits now, though. It might be the scenery, the parks and gardens of the clinic that don't get boring even after days and weeks. _That_ he also wouldn't have believed – he loves London, still does, but he has developed an appreciation for the calmness the countryside provides. Old age catching up with him, he reminds himself. Happens to everyone.

More often than not, John joins him. “Can I come along?” he asks, his jacket already in hand, or “Mind if I join you?” with the smile that says _I know you don't._

It's another benefit of their new dynamic. They are more sure of their respective place in each other's life than ever. It has caused them to grow even closer together, after the mismatched fit has been ripped open. There are scars to the tissue, but the wound is closing. It can be whole again despite the past hurt.

After a while they start speaking during these walks as well. Speaking openly, like they do at night and in counselling. They actually have shared sessions only two times a week now, having realised that the things they need to say are best said between the two of them. Karla approves, and so they carry on.

Still, most of the time they are silent during those walks. Silence, Sherlock comes to realise, can be as needed and healing as words. It's all about the right context, about knowing when to use which. They are getting there, step by step.

Ruth, of course, notices that something has shifted between them. She eyes them over the table when they share a meal, and when John leaves with Rosie she asks what is going on between them.

“You didn't tell him, did you? But something's different. You seem even closer now than before.”

“Do we?” Sherlock enquires curiously, allowing that to sink in. He has felt it himself, but he is still wary of his own emotions, never quite sure when to trust them or not. Having an outsider confirm what he knows in his heart to be true is affirming, to say the least. A warm sensation spreads in his stomach. He blames it on the tea.

“We did have a breakthrough of sorts, if you want to know. There were... unresolved issues. We decided to tackle them. We've been seeing my therapist together, and outside of that we've been- talking. A lot. We're working through those things. A lot has been resolved.”

“And now there's only one unresolved issue between you left, and you're thick as thieves,” she concludes.

The corner of Sherlock's lips quirks up. “If you say so.”

Ruth regards him for a moment. “Well, I still think you'll get to that someday,” she says with a knowing smile. Sherlock looks into his tea and remains silent. This time, he doesn't deny it.

* * *

He should have seen disaster coming, of course, when Rosie demanded to hold the spoon herself. It's the afternoon and John is still at the gym, where he has taken up working out quite a lot these days. Sherlock is looking after Rosie, who has decided halfway through her game that she's had quite enough of bricks and is ready for a snack. So Sherlock has sat her down at the table and handed her some pudding. She refused to let him feed her in order to keep the mess minimal, and so he figured that it wouldn't hurt – after all, she can't make more of a mess than when she's fed, which is to say, a big one.

She does. In fact, she covers herself so thoroughly in pudding that Sherlock sees no way out but through.

“You really are your father's daughter,” he mumbles, snatching her up and carrying her to the bathroom. “You're as bullheaded as he is. Sit,” he orders, and she flops down, rubbing the pudding into her shirt while she tries to examine the mess she's made. Sherlock sighs.

He checks the temperature while the bath runs, snatching her up from where she's moved on the floor. He undresses her, trying to wipe the chocolate from her face and arms with little success. She even seems to have gotten a handful under her shirt. He squints at the mess, then picks her up to put her in the tub.

She is delighted at the bubbles, and he can't help but smile at her unadulterated joy while he rolls up his sleeves. He gets a sponge and asks her to hold out her arms, then let him rub her belly. She doesn't seem inclined to leave the tub once she's clean, all too happy bursting the bubbles with her chubby fingers, and without further ado Sherlock decides to give her a complete wash since she's in there already.

He applies shampoo to her little mob of hair, careful not to let any run into her eyes. She watches him as he reaches for a flannel, and he stops in his movements, a chuckle rising in his throat at the sight of her.

He gets out his phone and takes a picture of her with her hair in a sticky mess, her mouth split in a wide grin that displays all her little teeth, and sends it to John before proceeding to rinse her hair.

He only realises the domesticity of the situation when he's pulling her out of the tub onto a towel on the floor. He didn't even think about any of the things he has just done; he has done them enough times for it to have become normal. He doesn't feel like he is on babysitting duty. He feels like he's doing his duty as Rosie's... what, exactly? Is this what a godfather does? A friend of the family? Or has he crossed into familial territory without either of them even beating an eye?

Rosie pats his arm and rips him from his thoughts. He shakes off the strange feeling the questions have left behind and fetches a towel. He rubs her hair provisionally. It's short enough to dry within minutes, and he deems the bath warm enough to skip the hairdryer.

Another decision on his part, he realises. One he just makes without even questioning it. Like he has any authority over her. Does he?

Doesn't he? After everything?

“Hold still,” he instructs. “Can you hold out your arms for me?” She obeys, and he nods. “Very good.” He has taken to questioning her about her body parts once she figured out how to name them, and a little repetition never hurts.

“What's this?” he asks when her arms are rubbed dry, poking her knees.

“My leg,” she says thoughtfully, hopping up and down in emphasis.

“Close enough,” Sherlock decides. “Turn around for me? What's this, Rosie?”

“Back,” she mumbles after a moment, and he hums in approval. He turns her back around and finishes drying her off, interrupting himself for question after question. She gets all of them right, and he wraps the little session up with a kiss to the tip of her nose.

“And what's that? What have you got there?”

She wrinkles her nose, rubbing the tip with a thoughtful look. “That's my nose,” she declares. He nods solemnly.

“Right it is. You're a very smart girl.”

“That she is.”

His head snaps around at the words. John is standing in the doorway, watching them with a fond smile playing on his lips.

“I didn't hear you coming back,” Sherlock says, trying to will his heartbeat to calm down. He feels irrationally caught, like he's done something he shouldn't have.

But he hasn't, has he? He doesn't think so. And John doesn't seem to, either.

“I just got back,” John says, tearing him from his thoughts. “Saw the photo you sent me. It's lovely.” There is nothing but fondness in his gaze. Sherlock holds his eyes for a moment.

“Daddy!” Rosie then calls, and John's gaze drifts to her.

“Hey, darling! I won't hug you, I'm all sweaty and Sherlock just got you nice and clean, didn't he? Yes, you're lovely, you are.”

Sherlock comes to a decision. It's what Karla has been telling him, it's what he's been working so hard on accepting and following through with. He feels this way about John and Rosie, this maybe too intimate and close way, but he does feel it. Those feelings are his and they are there, and they are valid. Not in spite of, but because of it. John's acceptance of them helps, even if he may not know the true extent of them, but he doesn't need it in order for them to be fine. They just are.

Sherlock is not going to hide from this. He is not going to back down out of fear of overstepping. If he does, John will tell him so. They've never had trouble communicating in that regard.

“I'll get her dressed in the living room,” he lets him know, for the first time marvelling at the domesticity his words imply. “You can shower in a minute.”

“Great,” John says and turns around. Sherlock hears him taking a glass from the cupboard in the other room, filling it at the sink. It is so _normal._ John doesn't just accept his interference, his presence. He approves of it.

He turns back to Rosie. “And what's that?” he asks, peeking her stomach. She giggles.

“Belly!”

“Yes, that's right. We're going to wrap that up nice and warm now, come on.” She follows him willingly, padding around while he picks out her clothes.

“Brown or blue?” he asks, holding up two cardigans for her to choose. She narrows her eyes, then reaches for the light brown.

“A good choice,” Sherlock notes. “It complements your hair. Come here.”

He can hear John stepping out of the shower in the bathroom as he kneels down. It's only been a few minutes. Old habits die hard, he supposes. Still the military man. Sherlock remembers when they were living together, and the rare occasion that he stayed in the shower longer than he had to. It was often a small indulgence, on days when his shoulder hurt or something else was up. He was always able to tell his mood from his extended showering time. It was the same here after the session that brought forth John's realisation about their relationship.

A pang of regret spreads in his chest. He has gotten so used to it. Not just to having John around, but Rosie as well. It's not that they see little of each other when they are in London, but it's different from having adjoining rooms at a health clinic where they spend every meal and half of their activities together.

The thought of having to give that up closes up his throat. He knows that he has no right to this, that it was only ever going to be temporary anyway – if John hadn't decided to come along he wouldn't have seen him at all for several weeks. But he has, and now he's gotten used to it.

Sherlock finds that he is decidedly not ready to return home. It's been three weeks since John came, and when Sherlock tentatively brought up how long he was going to stay he didn't seem inclined at all to pack his things any time soon. Sherlock knows that Mycroft can clear him from work for longer if he has to. He decides to text him when he is done with Rosie.

John comes out of the bathroom while he dresses her. This time Sherlock is hyper-aware of his presence, can practically feel him standing in the doorway. The sound of his quiet breathing is like a magnet, drawing Sherlock's focus on him with sheer force.

Sherlock resists looking at him as long as he is able to. When he turns his head to catch his eyes, the intensity of his gaze momentarily steals his breath away. He is just looking at him, just watching, and his gaze seems to burn through Sherlock, seems to burn something deep within him. He resists a shudder, can neither keep looking nor turn away. It's only when Rosie shifts beneath his hands that he can tear his eyes from him, and he feels flustered and flushed all over.

It's not the first time this has happened by a long shot, if he's being honest, and it turns his insides into a shaky mess every time. In fact, he thinks that these gazes have taken over. Since they started talking, something seems to have shifted to the point where neither of them seems to know just where the line of friendship ends and _something more_ begins. Sherlock doesn't want to name it; he knows what it is to himself, but he doesn't know where John stands on it. All he knows is that this is more than simple friendship, on both sides, whatever more means. It's enough to know that. He'll take it.

John's eyes are still on him as he finishes dressing Rosie. He can feel the heat of them, can feel the weight of his gaze like a physical sensation even though he is so far away from touching him.

“There we are,” Sherlock murmurs, closing the last few buttons of Rosie's cardigan. “All clean again. You look very dapper.”

She gives him a a smile, flinging herself at his leg as he straightens. He makes an involuntary sound. “I'm not going anywhere,” he assures her, picking her up by the waist when she holds out her arms for him. “I'm just not as young as I used to be. The floor's a bit hard on the knees, you see.”

He catches John's gaze as he carries her. Their eyes lock, and Sherlock asks himself how many times his heart can skip a beat before it becomes unhealthy. He idly wonders if John has the same problem. Somehow it doesn't seem as unlikely as it used to anymore. The thought in itself is enough to make Sherlock's heart race again. He wonders how people do it, being in love. He has been in love for years now, and it still affects him like it's completely new.

“I'll go make tea, yeah?” John asks softly. It's not even a question, not really. They both know Sherlock is staying. They both want him to.

“Yes,” Sherlock nods, and if his voice is slightly hoarse, neither of them points it out.

* * *

It's been almost a whole month when things change for good. In hindsight, Sherlock wonders if that was all it took – all it would have taken, just one month away from home, and they could have gotten there so much sooner. Could have prevented all the trauma and hurt that they both carry around with them now. He honestly doesn't find an answer – but then again, he is being forced to reconsider his entire worldview and he supposes not trusting his mind right now is only natural.

He is once again in John and Rosie's room, keeping an eye on her while John has his single counselling session. She is fast asleep, exhausted from all the fresh air and activities – she and John did full body painting today, and while the mess was immeasurable, so was the fun. Sherlock can't recall another time when he has seen them both this happy (and the hour in the bathroom afterwards was well worth the pictures he managed to snap, never mind the memories he's going to keep). It's already dark when John returns, distracting Sherlock from his book as he slowly opens the door in what seems to be a very deliberate and conscious movement.

Something is strange. Not in a tangible way, but enough to catch Sherlock's attention. He looks up and immediately catches John's eyes as he stands in the doorway. Sherlock slowly closes his book, getting out of his seat.

“John.”

John clears his throat. “Hi.”

His tentativeness is bringing out a feeling in Sherlock he can't quite comprehend, a strange flutter of nervousness, perhaps anticipation.

He closes the door, leaning his back against it. His tongue darts out to wet his lip. Sherlock feels his gaze on him.

He clears his throat. “Alright?”

“Yeah, fine.” John purses his lips, then takes a deep breath before saying, “There's... something I would like to talk to you about.”

Sherlock freezes for a split second, then forces himself to relax. He turns his body towards John. “Something about counselling?”

“Er, something that came up, yeah. About... you, and me. Can we- would you mind sitting down maybe? I don't wanna do this standing up.”

Sherlock nods slowly. “Of course, yes.” He takes a seat on the sofa and folds his hands in his lap. “Is something the matter?”

“No. Er, yes. But nothing's wrong, I mean. Well.” John chuckles nervously. “I hope so, at least.” He sees Sherlock's frown and clears his throat. “Sorry. I'm not- you know I'm not good at this, this sort of stuff.”

“Yes.”

“But we've been making an effort to improve that. Both of us.”

“Yes,” Sherlock says again.

“So it's only fair that I say this too, even though I have no idea how. Um. Give me a moment, yeah? I'll get to it.”

Sherlock's heart is racing in his chest; irrationally, loudly. He swallows. “Take your time.”

John shoots him a grateful look. He licks his lips, then straightens his shoulders and takes a deep breath.

“Alright then. This is- really hard. Actually saying it. I used to be so scared of saying it. Of it coming out somehow. Not that I'm not scared right now, just... for the record. But I- I'm making an effort, because you've, _we've_ been working very hard, and you deserve the truth. And I suppose I'm finally in a place where I feel secure in this, our relationship, and my place in your life and yours in mine, and Rosie's, I suppose. And I feel secure in the knowledge that even if this turns out to be a total disaster, you won't- abandon me, or hold it against me, or think less of me for it.” He laughs nervously. “Those were Karla's words, by the way. I agree with her, though. So. Here we go.”

Sherlock feels a cold sweat forming on his brow. He swallows, any attempts at regulating his own breathing going unnoticed by his hyperventilating body. _Is_ he hyperventilating? Why is he hyperventilating?

“I just want to say,” John begins and then swallows, “that it's fine, it's all fine. If you don't, you know, feel the same way.” He releases a deep breath. The sense of deja-vu only has a moment to ring in Sherlock's head before he continues, “Ah, hell. Why is this always such a hassle? I'm messing it up, I should- no, you know what, just. I'm just going to say it.”

He takes a sharp breath, and then, looking Sherlock directly in the eye, says, “Sherlock, you are my best friend, you _are_. But the way I feel about you has long passed friendship levels. For several years, if I'm completely honest. That first night at Angelo's, when we... when I asked about you having a boyfriend.” He swallows. “You didn't misunderstand. I was... definitely interested. And I tried to repress that after you rejected me, but I never... I never succeeded. And the feeling... grew, instead. Into something I never experienced with anyone else. Not before you. Not with Mary. Sherlock, I... you know that I love you, or at least I hope you do. But you should understand that I love you as a lot more than just a friend. I'm.” He takes a deep breath. “I'm in love with you. And I have been for years.”

Sherlock blinks. Breathes. Tries to open his mouth, but even that exceeds his capabilities. John's expression grows slightly concerned, but he is keeping quiet, holding still as he waits for his reaction as he would await his final judgement. Always the soldier.

“John.” It comes out involuntarily, and he doesn't know how to go on from there. He feels out of place in his own body, like he's somehow too large, or slightly too far to the side. But John is looking at him, and it's with an air of nervousness and clear signs of anxiety, but he is looking at him like he's just _right_ , and Sherlock heart seems to skip a beat before starting to race in his chest like his life depends on it.

Maybe it does.

He realises that it is crucial that he says something now, that John just opened up and laid his heart bare in a way neither of them has ever done before, and now it's his turn to reciprocate before he comes to the wrong conclusion. John is patient with him, always has been, he understands his need for time to process, but this is a special moment, levels, aeons above the moment Sherlock previously considered the most significant of his life – being asked to be John's best man in the same breath he was told that he loved him.

“You,” he says, and then, the epitome of eloquence and wit, “really?”

John huffs out a quiet laugh, a sound so like him that Sherlock has heard many, many times, speaking of fondness and affection and breaking the ice so easily as if it was never there at all.

“Yes, really,” John confirms, still nervous, but there's something else playing on his face now. It's okay, Sherlock realises. It's all okay. They are fine, regardless of how this goes.

Even though there really is only one way for this to go, as far as he is concerned. Sherlock gets up, only realising that his legs are shaking as he takes a wavering step, then another.

He falters mere inches from John, the tightness in his throat threatening to choke him. He is hyper-aware of everything around him, the cool breeze on his neck, the rustling of the heating, the lines around John's eyes, never leaving Sherlock's face for even a second. It's time for him to be the brave one.

“John,” Sherlock says, desperate for reassurance, for proof that he hasn't made this up, hasn't let his mind play a trick on himself, and what he really means to say is _meet me halfway._

John does. He seems to understand that he is at a loss, that everything is too much and not enough all at once. He rises to his feet, holding Sherlock's gaze as he stands. Nothing more, he just stands. And Sherlock gets it. This is all John can do, all he can offer. He has given him everything, and now it's Sherlock's turn. It needs to be his decision, his choice, and suddenly it's crucial, it is absolutely essential that he takes this final step now. John is looking at him, and his smile seems to say _It's just one step_ , and it is, and it isn't. Just one step between them. And seven years.

In the end it is easy to cross.

His body moves on its own account as he crosses the distance between them and bends down just as John stretches up, his hands coming up, settling on his neck and shoulder naturally when their lips meet for the very first time.

And it's quiet. It's so beautifully, beautifully quiet. No fireworks. No trumpets. Just him, and John, and the sound of his own blood rustling in his ears. Just the quiet sighs John is making, just the softest, barest sound of their lips touching, parting, and meeting again.

It is the single most outstanding moment of Sherlock's entire existence. It's beautiful, and it's quiet, and things are finally, finally _right._

For what feels like the first time in five years, Sherlock can breathe freely again.

The moment is endless and too short by far at the same time. It feels like it exists in its own bubble, as its own thing entirely, separate from everything else that is going on, that Sherlock has ever experienced. John's lips are warm and slightly chapped and they are more familiar on Sherlock's than they have any right to be. Sherlock marvels at the fact, at the feeling of the insistent, yet gentle press of John's mouth against his, the warmth as his lips part, as they gently explore each other in a way that is both carefree and heartbreaking.

He doesn't realise the streaks running down his cheek until John draws back, just enough to open his eyes and look at him, and wipes the trail away with his thumb. He would be embarrassed, only that John's eyes are equally wet and shining and this is _John_ , and he would strip bare and reveal his very soul to him if he asked. There is no shame, no more hiding. It's just them, finally where they are supposed to be, where they needed to be for longer than either of them cares to remember.

“Sherlock,” John breathes out, and Sherlock's throat closes up. He brings their lips together again in lieu of a reply, kissing him harder this time, letting the magnitude of the emotions roaring in him take over. John clutches his neck, gripping his shoulder and Sherlock lets his hands come to rest on John's waist, slowly moving over his sides. John shudders under the touch and Sherlock's lips part in a silent gasp. They step closer at the same time, seemingly attempting to get as close as humanly possible as they kiss, breath each other in like oxygen.

“John, I-”

They break apart, sharing a few shuddering breaths as they lean their foreheads together. John drops his hand to take Sherlock's in his, twining their fingers together mindfully, as if he is made of glass, and when their eyes meet, Sherlock only needs to nod once. They move to the bedroom hand in hand, barely being able to stand being apart. It's Sherlock who lowers himself on the bed first, his hand wound around John's waist, and John steps between his legs, bending down to put a soft kiss on his lips before he joins him. They slip out of their shoes, taking off their shirts before they lie down. There is no rush, no hurry to get this done. Sherlock feels the urgency to be close drumming in his veins, but it's overridden by the desire to cherish every precious second, map out every inch of John starting at the top, to just hold on and be and realise that what is happening is real.

“Is this okay?” John murmurs, brushing a curl out of Sherlock's forehead. Sherlock nods.

“Of course it is. More than okay. I want this.”

John smiles at him, softly, genuinely. “Me too,” he says, something between a confession and reassurance. He drops his hand to Sherlock's chest, his fingers hovering over his stomach, unsure of whether they can go lower.

“Can I?”

“Yes. You don't have to ask.”

“Alright. Okay.” John licks his lips, lowering his eyes as he puts his hands on Sherlock's belly in a deliberate movement. They both smile when Sherlock's stomach twitches. He caresses the warm skin with a soft brush of his fingers, gently exploring the area before going lower. He bends his head to gingerly kiss Sherlock's chest, just a soft touch of his lips to the fine hair, then, emboldened by Sherlock's quiet gasp, drops kiss after kiss there, slowly making his way down his sternum to his stomach.

The temptation to let go of every thought and give himself over to the sensation of John loving his body is strong, but there is something holding him back, something he needs to do first before he can let go.

“John,” Sherlock says, stopping him with a hand to his shoulder. John looks up.

“Yeah?” he asks quietly, licking his lips in what Sherlock knows is an attempt at covering his nervousness, his insecurity. Like he has anything to be insecure about. Like Sherlock isn't exactly where he has wanted to be for so long. Like he could ever change his mind about this.

Sherlock cups his faces and pulls him close for a gentle kiss, determined to make the uncertainty go away.

“I love you,” he says, loud and clear, leaving no room for interpretation, for insecurity or doubt. John looks utterly gobsmacked for a second, which almost gets a smile out of Sherlock, considering the position they are in right now. Then he lifts his hands to cup Sherlock's face, searching his eyes for something Sherlock doesn't know, but he seems to find it because he lets out a sound that is almost a moan, a soft sigh, and then he is kissing him, kissing him like his life depends on it.

Everything comes naturally after that. There are no more restrictions, no words left unsaid, no doubts in either of their minds what this, _they_ , means to them. It's the simplest, most basic form of coming together, and it's gentle, it is so, so gentle. The thought that Sherlock is deserving of such care and gentleness takes his breath away, and he draws miraculous breath after breath, basking in the knowledge that John deems him not just worthy of the care he shows him, but treats him as if it's the only way.

It is so soft, and gentle, curious, and exploring with an underlying desire too deep for either of them to understand, and Sherlock didn't know that he could feel so reverent in the face of lust. It's all hands and skin on skin, mouths on mouths and throats and chests. It's drags and brushes, heavy gasps and low moans, kisses and whispered names, whispered confessions, whispered questions of _is this alright?_ and _do you like this?_ and most of all, over and over, reassurance and confirmation, building and mounting until it pulls them under, and it's not defeat, it's surrender. It's bliss, and letting go of old things to embrace the new, it's victory, sweet and luring, leaving a deep satisfaction coupled with a wish for more that will not let itself be kissed away.

Afterwards, Sherlock lies half-draped over John's chest, listening to the hypnotising rhythm of his heart beating in his chest. He spares a thought for Rosie, who has mercifully slept through what Sherlock considers the most outstanding and precious hours of his life. He realises that not much has changed, on the grand scheme of things, that the world is still turning as it always has, that Rosie is still going to wake up and demand a change and breakfast at one point, not giving a fig about the fact that her dad and her... Sherlock just took their relationship to the next level. But it never was about the grand scheme of things. It's all about them, and him, and John breathing beneath him, about the paradigm shift in the world he inhabits and his own perceiving of its workings.

For instance, Sherlock had no idea that lying half on top of someone of John's height and build, their limbs tangled and their skin pressed together, could feel this magnificent. Sherlock is immensely comfortable, snuggled into John's side and his neck, feeling the shifts of his body underneath him. He tries to absorb the rhythm John's heart is beating, and when that doesn't feel like enough anymore he lifts his head, supporting his chin on his chest as he watches his face, memorising the slow rise and fall. John turns his head to look at him, giving him a small smile. He doesn't look sad, but his eyes are far away. He's retreated into his own head. Sherlock doesn't blame him, he himself is struggling to comprehend the magnitude of the shift that just happened.

“How are you feeling?” Sherlock asks with a nudge, his voice uneven and a little rusty, marvelling at the fact that he's allowed to touch John like this, touch him with romantic intent, and have it not just be accepted, but _welcomed._

John lets out a quiet laugh. “Really? Now?”

Sherlock's lips curve into a small, acknowledging smile. “If not now, then when?”

John clears his throat, nodding once as he looks at him, into his eyes. “Right you are. We've been waiting for this for so long. Without even knowing that we were waiting.” He sniffs, his smile fading as the melancholy of his words takes over his features. “We're going to go right about this.”

Sherlock wraps his arm around him. “Yes, we are,” he says, and it's a promise.

“Well.” John clears his throat, biting his lip. “I'm very, _very_ happy, first and foremost.” He looks at Sherlock as though he wants to make sure that he understands. Sherlock nods him to continue; he does. “But I'm also scared out of my mind. Still, even though you... reacted the way you did. I'm scared shitless of messing this up. And I'm angry, too.”

“At whom?”

“Not you,” John assures him immediately. “I'm angry at myself. At the situation, at the fact that we could have had this so much sooner, without all the shit that's happened.”

“Don't be angry at yourself,” Sherlock murmurs, dropping kisses to his chest before smoothing over the skin. “You couldn't have known any more than me. In fact, it's _my_ job to know things other people don't. If you want to blame anyone, it should be me.”

“Don't,” John says, nudging at Sherlock's shoulder until he rolls over. They wriggle around until they are face to face. John's expression is open and earnest. “I don't want you to think that of yourself. Not just when it comes to us, in general. Even Sherlock Holmes isn't infallible. And he doesn't have to be. He's lovely and magnificent and worthy of so much more than he ever got in his life as he is.”

Sherlock hums. “Is he now,” he asks, going for the lighter approach. “Do you know what he also happens to be?”

John graces him with a small smile. “Tell me,” he asks.

“Terribly infatuated with one John H. Watson. Terribly. Only that it's less terrible and more brilliant now. And so is John, and he should stop overthinking things and let go of what can't be changed anymore.”

John raises his eyebrows, but he can't suppress the smile playing on his lips, bigger now. “Sherlock Holmes telling someone to stop thinking so much? Ridiculous.”

“John Watson blaming himself for what he couldn't have possibly prevented, wallowing in thoughts of the unchangeable past? Even more ridiculous,” Sherlock retorts. John snorts, and Sherlock chuckles.

“We're both very ridiculous,” John decides, gingerly sneaking his arm around Sherlock's waist. Sherlock pulls him closer without much ado, tangling his legs with his as they lie perfectly slotted together.

“I do think we're faring rather well at the moment,” Sherlock admits, searching his eyes before he ducks his head and gently brushes John's lips with his. John responds immediately. The kiss, though it stays soft, gets Sherlock's heart rate back up in seconds. “And I look forward to finding out what ridiculous shenanigans we get up to in the future.”

“As longs as we do it together,” John agrees. Sherlock nods.

“My thoughts precisely.”

John looks at him, searching his eyes for a long moment. He seems to come to a decision. “I want to promise you something,” he mumbles. “Now, while we're still in the early stages of our relationship. I hope it goes without saying, but we did learn that we're better off saying these things. And I want this to be clear, I don't want there to be any doubt about this. So.” He sits up, taking Sherlock's hands between his. “You and I haven't exactly been good at vows so far, but I promise you this. You, and myself. Sherlock, I swear to you that I am never going to touch you with the intent to hurt you again. Never.”

“I know you won't,” Sherlock says, sitting up as well, but John holds out a hand as if to signal him to wait.

“But I want you to promise me something in return.” He swallows, steadily meeting his eyes as he continues. “I know you have forgiven me, and I know you mean that. I'm grateful for that every single day. But even so, this kind of thing doesn't just... go away. It happened. I'm dealing with it. You are, too. So I want you to promise me that if I ever touch you, or treat you in a way that makes you uncomfortable, no matter whether it's my intention or not, then you tell me. You don't hide it, alright?”

“Alright,” Sherlock says with a nod, and then, when John gives him a long look, adds, “I promise you that I will always, without omission, let you know when something you're doing is making me uncomfortable. I don't expect to make good on that promise, but I will if it comes to it. Trust me.”

“I do.” He releases a slow breath. “That's good. Thank you.”

Sherlock takes his hand and kisses his knuckles. Then he lies back down, turning onto his side.

John follows suit soon. He blinks at his face once he's settled, and then his lips curve into a smile and he shakes his head. Sherlock gives him a curious look. “What?”

“Nothing, it just occurred to me... I can't believe that in a way we have Mycroft to thank for this.”

Sherlock blinks at him for a moment, then huffs out a laugh. “Well,” he points out, “he does have his bright moments. Don't tell him I said that.”

“I would never,” John promises, and then he cups his cheek and leans in for another kiss.


	4. Home

The place where John's body was nestled to Sherlock's during the night is empty when Sherlock wakes up. His heart jumps irrationally before he can remind himself of the events of the previous evening. It all seems hazy, a little dream-like in the soft light of the morning. He reaches for the empty space beside him. The sheets aren't quite cold yet.

Sherlock sits up and rubs the sleep out of his eyes. He reaches for his clothes on the floor, throwing on his shirt before getting out of bed to put on the rest. He doesn't bother doing the buttons on his shirt as he steps outside. John isn't in the living room, but he can hear him speaking softly from Rosie's room.

“Oh, you're up,” he says when Sherlock steps into the doorway. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” Sherlock replies, smiling at Rosie, who has turned her head at the sound of his voice.

“Sorry,” John apologises with a wry smile. “I didn't want you to wake up alone. I really wanted to be there with you, but the little lady here had other plans.”

“It's alright,” Sherlock says lightly, taking in the tense line of John's shoulders, the crease in his forehead that betrays his worries. He steps behind him, putting a hand on his waist, stroking softly. “Rosie comes first.”

John finishes her nappy, then turns around. “I didn't want you thinking that I changed my mind. That I wasn't serious about... last night. All of it. Us.”

“I don't,” Sherlock says honestly, because he can read in the lines of John's face that he is, in fact, very serious about it. “We will have plenty of waking up together in the future. It's all fine.”

“Okay. Alright.” John blinks up at him, his shoulders sagging in relief. Then he smiles. “I'm ready for breakfast soon, if you want to go and change.”

“Maybe a shower too,” Sherlock agrees. “That wasn't innuendo,” he adds as an afterthought, then narrows his eyes and says, “although I don't mind if you take it as such.”

John grins at him. It's the easiest Sherlock has seen him in ages. “I would love to join you, but I'm fairly sure Rosie wouldn't be too happy about being left out. And what I'd do to you would be very... inappropriate for young children.”

Sherlock's breath hitches as John's hand slides down his side, lingering on the curve of his bum.

“Well,” he says, his voice croaking, “there'll be plenty of time for that in the future, too.”

He bends down and kisses John's lips. “I look forward to it,” John assures him when they part. Then he squeezes his hip. “Come on, off you pop. We're hungry.”

“Twenty minutes,” Sherlock promises and disappears into his own room.

It is a perfectly ordinary day. They go down for breakfast, then part for their respective activities before meeting again for a yoga session in the late morning. They have lunch and later on dinner, like they have dozens of times before, and Rosie makes a mess of herself and the table like she's done dozens of times, and yet everything feels utterly altered. Different. Much, much better.

Ruth, of course, notices as soon as she lays eyes on them. While John goes about feeding himself and his daughter lunch as usual, Sherlock can only take a bare minute of her scrutinising looks before he sighs and nods.

“Yes, we worked it out. Yes, we talked about everything and kissed and are now in a relationship as of yesterday evening. Yes, you were right all along.”

John, who has looked up at his words, glances at Ruth with an almost sheepish smile. A massive grin spreads on Ruth's face as she listens. She lets out a delighted giggle that sounds about forty years too young to be coming from her, and squeezes Sherlock's arm. Despite her almost painful grip, he can't help but join in on her joy.

“I knew it! Didn't I tell you? What did I say?”

“You said we would get there one day,” Sherlock repeats patiently with an exaggerated roll of his eyes, catching John's gaze as he does so. He is secretly immensely pleased that they are already comfortable enough to fall back on silly teasing.

“You did?” John asks, raising his eyebrows as he turns back to Ruth. “Is that what you two were always whispering about when I was away?”

“It sure was.” She leans forward and pats his hand, all traces of humour leaving her voice. “I am so immensely happy for you both, John. I can't tell you what a relief it is to see you having worked it out.”

John lets out a hearty laugh. “Believe me when I say that the relief is all mine.”

“And mine,” Sherlock adds. They exchange a look, each ending up smiling into their food. Ruth chuckles in obvious delight.

“Oh, to be young and in love,” she sighs before turning to her soup again.

John quirks an eyebrow at Sherlock. “Do we still qualify as young?”

“Well, you certainly don't. You're practically an old man.”

John snorts at the teasing. “Yeah, well, which one of us is seen with the old man as his lover and which one with the younger, handsome, posh boy?”

“I'll have you know that I only date classy and handsome elderly men,” Sherlock remarks haughtily. “You did in no way get the better end of the deal there.”

John's smile widens. “Wouldn't be too sure about that,” he replies. Sherlock regards him for a moment.

“Young or not, I _am_ very much in love,” he adds, his voice softer now. John picks up on the sincerity. He reaches over the table and intertwines his fingers with Sherlock's, squeezing lightly.

“So am I.”

They both drop their gazes after that, again smiling at their plates, soon resuming the conversation with Ruth and the occasional interjection from Rosie. The lightness Sherlock feels around his heart doesn't cease, it stays with him all throughout the day, lifting him up where he hasn't even noticed the yearning in his bones weighing him down before. It is an entirely new state of being. It's _exhilarating_.

They spend most of the afternoon and evening in each other's company, but it's different with Rosie there. Their touches stay on the shy side of intent and while they smile at each other over the rims of their cups or their plates at dinner, any heavier conversation is pushed back until later.

They only get time for themselves when Rosie has been put to bed. Sherlock slips into her room to press a kiss to her forehead, then leaves John to read her a story. He is sitting in the chair when he returns, carefully closing the door to Rosie's room behind him. Sherlock puts his phone down and looks at him. He is not exactly nervous, but now that it's finally just the two of them, for the first time since last night, there is a strange flutter of anticipation in his stomach.

John looks uncertain, caught between heading for the sofa and staying put. His eyes flicker to Sherlock, and a tingling warm sensation spreads in Sherlock's stomach. John is nervous because of them, because he wants to get this right. Funnily enough, Sherlock's own nervousness recedes at the realisation.

“Do you want to lie down together?” Sherlock asks softly, and John's eyes snap to his face before a smile spreads on his lips and he nods.

“Yeah, that would be nice.”

They forego the sofa and go straight for the bed, not aiming for sex, just physical closeness and intimacy. This time Sherlock changes and readies himself before slipping under the covers, and John uses the time to get comfortable as well. The moment he joins him under the duvet, wriggling right into his waiting arms, everything seems to just fall into place.

John lets out a sigh he seems to have held in the whole day. “This is nice,” he murmurs, his voice a little hesitant, like he is not quite sure if he is allowed to enjoy this.

“Very,” Sherlock agrees, dropping a kiss to John's forehead. John tilts his head up and pulls him down for a proper kiss, leaving Sherlock with the confirmation that he has craved this as much as he has.

They snuggle up closely, tangling limbs together and running hands over chests and arms, but their touches stay innocent, seeking assurance rather than stimulation. Later, maybe. But this, right now, is the much needed intimacy Sherlock has craved ever since he woke up alone this morning. Likely much longer.

The weight and warmth of John's body curled up and pressed against him is as addictive as anything Sherlock has ever known. While he has read about the scientific benefits of cuddling – scornfully – he is pleased to find that he has to reconsider his views on the subject in the face of personal involvement. Minutes pass during which neither of them says anything, focusing solely on the sensation of being this close at last.

A sense of utter relaxation takes over Sherlock's body, one he sees reflected in John's posture, allowing his mind to go through the recent developments. They both use the time to think, reflecting on the events of the past day and the endless months and years before that in the safety of each other's arms. When Sherlock poses a question after a while, keeping his voice low, John doesn't seem the slightest bit surprised.

“Are you scared?”

The clock is ticking loudly in the background. John, still in Sherlock's embrace, only takes a moment to reply. “Yes.”

Sherlock tightens his arm around him. “Tell me,” he asks lowly.

He waits patiently as John thinks, knowing the struggle of putting his feelings into words all too well.

“I'm afraid that I'm going to take too much now that you've let me in. That I'm going to ruin you. That you're not going to stop me.”

“You could never take too much,” Sherlock murmurs, frowning at him. “Because I give you everything freely.”

“Not everything,” John says quietly. “I don't want you to give me everything. I don't ever want to _have_ everything. You need to keep part of yourself. You need to remain your own person, Sherlock. As do I. That's the only way this is going to work.”

Sherlock swallows, but stays quiet. “We can work it out together, can't we?” he asks after a while, his voice small. “Because I don't know how to do that. All I know is how to give everything.”

“I know.” John's face twists into something pained. He wriggles closer, nudging his cheek with his nose. “We're going to work it out, alright? You and me both. We'll find a balance.”

Sherlock closes his eyes, nodding. He can tell that John is not done yet, that he's still trying to phrase what's on his mind, and so he remains quiet, waiting for him to speak.

“I'm also afraid of losing control again,” he admits eventually, the words a breathy whisper in the quiet. “I'm so bloody scared of that happening again. I don't know how I can ever make a move on you when I constantly have the memory of that on my mind. How can I ever allow myself to let go when we’re having sex? How can I ever let myself become angry with you when we fight, if I’m always scared to lose control of myself? All of that is part of a relationship, and I don't know how to do any of it like a normal person. Not anymore.”

“Yes, you do. And if you've really forgotten you can learn it again. We can learn it together. I know you. That’s not who you are. Who you really are is strong, and brave, and kind, and gentle. You always have been. You can’t define yourself by your lowest moment. I won’t allow it.”

John exhales deeply. “It was a long string of low moments.”

“That wasn't just you, though,” Sherlock reminds him quietly. “If you recall, it was quite the turmoil for both of us.”

“Yeah,” John agrees soundlessly. Sherlock moves his hand over his arm.

“Have you talked to Karla about this?”

“Yes. We're going to focus on it now.”

“Good. Because this is not something I can solve,” Sherlock admits. John rolls over to snuggle up to him.

“I know. And I'm not asking you to. You shouldered so much of my burden, so much, Sherlock. But this is my cross to bear. And I'm working on it. I just felt you should know.”

“Thank you,” Sherlock mumbles. “For letting me in. I know it's not easy.” He leans in to kiss John, revelling in the immediate response, the reciprocating press of his soft lips against his.

“It's worth it,” John says when they part. “This whole being honest and open thing, it's really working out in my favour so far.”

“Hmm,” Sherlock hums, rolling over into John's embrace, marvelling at the fact that they are at a point where they can talk about things like this the way they do, openly, honestly, without having to fear rejection or a lack of understanding.

They understand each other perfectly now. Which isn't to say that they don't have anything left to work on, on the contrary. Far from it. It just means, Sherlock muses as he gazes into John's eyes before diving in for another kiss that lets his mind blank, that they both know that they are on the same page, and that they will move forwards together, as a unit. Never again divided.

John responds to the kiss all too happily, wrapping his arms around Sherlock's neck as he pulls him closer. Still gentle, he notes, giving him air to breathe and plenty of opportunity to pull away should he feel the need to. He doesn't, though he appreciates the gesture.

John deepens the kiss, parting his lips as he takes Sherlock's mouth, and Sherlock decides that he is done with gentle. John smiles into the kiss when he pulls on his shirt, and they discard of their clothes quickly before their bodies find together in an enticing rhythm that steadily carries them to the point of blissful pleasure within short, yet endless minutes.

“I love you,” Sherlock whispers against John's lips on the brink of his climax, and John repeats the words to him over and over as he spills between them.

“How did I ever live without saying that?” Sherlock wonders as he rests on his back, feeling his heartbeat in his chest returning to normal. He counts the beats, matches his breathing to John's as they come down from their high. John's hand is on his wrist, slipping into his as their fingers lock.

“How did I ever live without hearing you say that?” John gives back. Sherlock turns his head, and John lifts his head to cup his cheek and kiss him. Sherlock, refusing to let him go just yet, wraps his arm around his waist, holding him close as he seeks out the taste of him.

“Hold on,” John interrupts before Sherlock can pull him on top of him. “I'll be right back,” he murmurs with a final lingering kiss, and Sherlock watches him go from beneath heavy lids.

John slips out of bed to get something to clean them up and switches off the light on his way back, but neither of them sleeps once they're settled under the covers.

“I used to think that I was done, you know,” John mumbles, a hand resting on Sherlock's neck, his fingers slipping into his hair. “In Afghanistan, and then again when you... when I thought you were dead. Even with Mary, I was never quite... you know. I thought second best was all I was ever going to get. At times even that seemed too good to become reality. I just thought that there was nothing for me. Nothing left that could make it all worthwhile.”

He bites his lip, holding his gaze as he continues. “But I found you. Twice. Maybe even more times, considering how long it took us to get here. But even when we weren't yet... even when I'd only just met you, when I didn't even know that you would change my life the way you did, I knew that this was it. What I'd always been looking for, what I'd already given up ever finding. I knew it was you. I just didn't know in which capacity, to which extent. And there's a part of me that regrets so much, that wishes I could just go back and... fix it. But then I look at you, looking at me like this, holding me like this, and I think of Rosie, who is by far the best thing to have come out of the mess I made of things, and... I think it might be alright, the way it is. Or it will be, at the very least.” His hand curls around Sherlock's face. “Do you think? That it's alright?”

“I think it's quite a bit more than just alright, John,” Sherlock assures him, his head swimming from John's words as he catches his lips in a kiss in, trying to convey what they mean to him.

He taps a gentle rhythm on John's biceps as he draws back, gathering his thoughts.

“You weren't wrong, that first case. You said I risked my life to prove I'm clever. You weren't wrong.” He halts when John brushes his thumb over his cheekbone. “You changed my life, too. Irrevocably. You changed me. And I am glad you did.”

John releases a slow breath. Sherlock can hear the shaking behind it. “I love you,” he mumbles. “I can't tell you enough. I love you, Sherlock. Thank you.”

“I haven't done anything,” Sherlock gives back. The pang in his chest at the words surprises him. This is what Karla has been talking about, his self-worth, how he faults himself for not succeeding in what he wanted to do most; make John happy.

“You have done _everything_ ,” John corrects, his voice vehement. “Everything and beyond that. Above all, you saved me. When I didn't know that there was anything worth saving.”

“Of course there was something worth saving,” Sherlock replies, his voice breaking on the final syllable, betraying how deeply those words from John affect him, how much they feel like absolution. He doesn't think he can let the doubts go just yet, knows it's not that easy, but he feels now for the first time that he might be right in trying to. And try he will, with the knowledge that John has forgiven him for his shortcomings, as he has forgiven John for his, and that together they will make each other better, as they have always done and always will.

John kisses him, deep and staggering and so full of love and trust and devotion that any trains of thought are cut short. Sherlock's mind narrows down to the feeling of John's lips on his, the warm pressure, the singular taste and texture. They kiss for what may have been minutes or hours, finding reverence and absolution in the shape of each other's mouths.

Their hushed confessions, quiet in the dark of their room, ebb away into silence after that, feeling all the more intimate between the two of them and the rustling sheets as they lie together, sharing the odd kiss here and there.

The peaceful quiet is only interrupted by the faint sound of Rosie's sudden crying after endless minutes. John sighs, shifting in his arms. Sherlock squeezes once before he releases him.

“Be right back,” he murmurs, climbing over him as he crosses the room. Sherlock rolls over as he looks after him. John leaves the door open, and he can hear him speaking lowly from the other room.

“Hey, love, you're alright. Did you have a bad dream? You're okay, I'm here. Daddy's here. Sherlock's here, too.”

He swallows, the fact that he can serve as a source of comfort to her making his eyes prickle unexpectedly.

“There, there,” John murmurs, his voice growing clearer as he returns to the room, carrying a sleepy, wailing Rosie in his arms. She calms down as he rubs her back, pushing a thumb into her mouth. Sherlock sits up as John steps in front of the bed.

“Hey, sweet girl,” he murmurs, stroking along her back. She blinks at him at the sound of his voice, her eyes heavy with sleep and unshed tears. Sherlock deliberately keeps his voice low, trying to make it as calming as possible. “You're alright, aren't you? We're both here for you. You're fine.”

Rosie seems to calm at his ministrations, resting her head on her father's shoulder in a clear sign of exhaustion. She keeps her eyes on Sherlock, barely open but fixed on him, and Sherlock realises that he is as essential to her comfort as John. It makes sense – she is used to him in a way that she is only to John, as he sees her frequently, and for the last few weeks constantly. After John, he is the greatest constant in her life. She has known him quite literally since birth, and there is no one else she is around as much. Of course she will be calmed by his presence. It makes perfect sense, but all the logic in the world can't take away the swell of pride in Sherlock's chest at the thought of her looking up to him like that.

Sherlock takes one look at John still standing in front of the bed, softly swaying back and forth, before pushing the duvet back and patting the sheets.

“Come on, get back under the covers,” he instructs. “You're getting cold.”

John meets his eyes. He looks like he wants to ask if he is sure for a moment, but then accepts the invitation. He hands Rosie to Sherlock, who holds her close as John settles back on the other side of the bed. He gently puts her down between them, enclosed by their warm bodies and the blanket, and runs a hand through her hair.

“You're okay,” he murmurs, smiling at her as she watches him with hooded eyes. “Go back to sleep, Rosie. We'll look after you.”

Miraculously, she closes her eyes. They both watch her little chest rise and fall, getting slower with every passing minute until sleep takes her.

John nuzzles her hair with his nose, his eyes fixed on Sherlock's face.

“You're so good to her,” he mumbles when he is sure that she is asleep. “And to me. I don't even know how to thank you for everything you do for us.”

“Don't thank me.” Sherlock brushes a curl out of Rosie's forehead, then raises his eyes to John's. “You're my family,” he says, quietly in order not to wake Rosie. The words feel too heavy for such a voiceless whisper. John shifts closer, resting a hand over Rosie's curled up form, trailing down Sherlock's arm.

“I know. And you're mine. And hers, too. You know that, don't you? You're her family. Ours.”

“I am,” Sherlock agrees, tasting the words and finding to his surprise – and joy – that they feel right in his mouth. “Your family,” he says experimentally. He catches John's eyes, smiling at him with the adorable soft expression Sherlock can't help but kiss off his face. They snuggle up, cautiously encasing Rosie as they settle in to rest. Sherlock closes his eyes and, for the first time, falls asleep with his family sharing his bed.

He sleeps as well as he hasn't in ages.

* * *

The silence in Karla's office is heavy with anticipation, but not charged. The issue they are tackling is one they intend to fight together, not something that could drive them apart – though Sherlock suspects that little could, at this point. In answer to Karla's question how they are doing John squared his shoulders and told her that there was something he ought to talk about. Faltering, he turned to Sherlock for guidance.

Sherlock gave John an encouraging nod and he gathered himself by drawing a deep breath, repeating to Karla what he confessed last night in the privacy of their shared bed. She listened to his halting explanation of being held back by fear, giving him a few seconds to gather his thoughts before she responds.

“What are you afraid of?”

John purses his lips. Sherlock doesn't have to look at his hands to know that they are clenched into fists. “Losing control, mostly.”

Sherlock knows that he has plenty more fears, many of which he shares, but this is his most deeply rooted, the one that holds him back from doing what he wants to do. If they can work on this one, the rest is child's play.

“In general, or in specific situations?”

“Both. There was... ah.”

“Was there a situation during which you felt in danger of losing control?” Karla probes gently when he fails to continue his sentence. John swallows, then nods once.

“I wasn't- I didn't feel like I was about to lose control, but I got... when we went to bed together, you know, physically. There was a part of me that was terrified that I would hurt him. Maybe not even intentionally, by losing control the way I did back then, just... in any way, I don't- I can't hurt him. Not again. Never again.”

Karla nods. “And in general, how does this fear of losing control affect you and your life?”

“Well, I'm. I'm careful. Not just around Sherlock, around Rosie too. I'd never hurt her voluntarily, but I also never wanted to hurt Sherlock voluntarily and that happened, so I'm- I don't let myself get angry, or worked up around either of them.”

“I think it's very good that you recognise the potential triggers for a loss of control. However, you need to realise that you were at a very low point when you lost control. You seem much more stable now, and you said yourself that you haven't had any moments of the kind since then.”

John clears his throat. “I haven't, no.”

“That's good. Admit to yourself that you're making progress, which you should be proud of. But at the same time it's important to remember that progress is seldom linear. Your fear of losing control that way again is understandable, but if it keeps you from even letting it go for minor matters, it will end up being counterproductive. You have to let yourself lose control sometimes. In small ways, harmless ways if possible. You have to let yourself get angry. Those kind of emotions are inevitable, and if you never let them out when you feel them they are going to pile up until you're facing a mountain. That's when something like the incident in the hospital happens.”

John swallows, staring at his hands. “I know that. I know you're right, of course you are, I just- I'm scared of doing that. I'm scared that once I start, I won't be able to stop.”

“You will never know if you don't try,” Karla says with a slight smile. “Now, I'm not saying you should put either Rosie or Sherlock in danger. But my evaluation of you is that you are not in a position where you're at risk of falling back into that sort of behaviour. You go to your single sessions as well as these double sessions. You are doing splendidly in both. I don't consider you a danger to others or yourself.”

John's eyes shoot up. He searches her face and, upon making sure that she is serious, swallows again. “That's- thank you. That's very good to hear.”

“Thank yourself. You are doing remarkably well. You're tackling your recovery with admirable determination, and it shows.”

“It does,” Sherlock agrees, catching John's eyes. “You know how in your previous attempts at therapy, you ended up not saying anything that mattered every time?” John gives a court nod. “You've stopped doing that. Entirely. I know how hard it is for you, but you come here with me every time, and you get through every single one of your sessions, and you make it a point to talk anyway. Despite hating it. Because you want to get better. And you are. You are a good man, John.”

John's eyes are fixed on him as he listens to his every word. He swallows when he falls silent, opening his mouth and then closing it again. He doesn't find the words to express the emotions Sherlock sees working on his face, but he doesn't have to. They understand each other perfectly as they look at each other, Karla's presence forgotten for the moment.

“Thank you,” John eventually gets out, his voice hoarse. Sherlock gives him a smile.

“Sherlock, how are you dealing with John's struggle? How do you experience it?”

“I don't experience it as a struggle. Well, obviously John does, and I acknowledge that, but I think that you're right and he worries too much. He is much more stable now than he was when it happened. I understand where he's coming from, though. I went through that too, after all. Just slightly differently.”

Karla nods. “That's an important point you bring up there. The two of you have a lot of shared trauma. It is only natural that you share a lot of your grief, too. That can be very helpful for coping with that grief. But what you need to understand and acknowledge is that you both have your individual trauma and grief as well. Even though the same things happened to both of you, you experienced them differently. Take Sherlock's suicide, for example. It's a very difficult scenario that left you both in a complex situation. You experienced different sides of the same story, and you dealt with it differently. It's the same with the morgue incident and the aftermath – it is only natural that John is affected differently by it than you, Sherlock. Accept that it's going to be like that from now on too, despite the change in your relationship. You can't do everything together, and you don't want to. Your individuality is something you should cherish and protect.”

She pauses, looking from John to Sherlock. Sherlock nods, and John follows.

“I want you to allow yourself to express the emotions you have, and how you're dealing with them. John, you said you are scared of losing control. You know that tends to happen when you keep your emotions bottled up.”

John clears his throat. “Yes. I know.”

“Then the solution is clear. You said in one of our earlier sessions that you're trying to be more open. You too, Sherlock. How is that working for you so far?”

Sherlock catches John's eyes and they exchange a look. The corner of John's mouth lifts in a minute smile. “Good, yeah. Surprisingly so. We're... we're doing fine. There's a lot of overcoming involved, at least on my part, but it's not impossible. And it seems to get easier.”

“I agree. It's... it seems that once I have started, it has gotten easier every time. We talk a lot.” Sherlock glances at John, holding his gaze despite the flush spreading on his face. “About things we have never talked about before. It's not easy, but... I feel like we're getting there. It's good,” he adds after a pause, returning John's smile. He takes a deep breath before he continues. “I feel closer to him than I did before. I've never shared anything like this with anyone else. So much of me. I refused it even to myself, as you know. This is new. But it's good, yes.”

John reaches over the chairs and takes his hand. “I agree,” he says, squeezing once.

“That sounds very promising,” Karla says with a warm smile. “Sherlock, you say that you don't feel hesitant about being close to John? Have you experienced any moments where you have felt unsafe or uncomfortable due to the incident in the morgue, when you were intimate or otherwise?”

Sherlock can feel John's anxious eyes on him as he awaits his answer. He deliberately holds his gaze as he replies, making clear that there are no secrets, that he is speaking the truth and nothing but. “While I have felt more guarded around John in the immediate aftermath of the incident and the weeks afterwards, we have have both changed since then and I'm not afraid that something of the like will happen again, because I know it won't.” He pauses as he thinks, then adds, “I see how gentle he is now, and how hard he is working to ensure that it stays that way. And I know that that is who he really is. I believe that's part of what makes it so easy for me to feel at ease, because I know him, and I see that he is constantly leaving me a way out, should I need it. So, no, I don't feel unsafe or guarded around him. In fact, I consider us closer than ever.”

He tears his eyes from John's face to look at Karla, who is smiling at them.

“This sounds very promising. I'm very happy with the progress you're making, individually and together. I understand your worries, and I'm glad you have them, since it shows your growth and acknowledgement of the issues you need to work on. But you're faring very well. Don't beat yourself up about what was and what could be, when you're heading in the entirely right direction.”

John swallows, nodding once. “Right. Yes. That's- good, thank you.”

They move on to more shallow territory after that. Sherlock watches John as he chats with Karla about Rosie's progress in their bonding courses. It's clear from the set of his shoulders that his mind is occupied with the first half of their session, but he doesn't seem tense, just pensive. Sherlock marks it down as a success. They really do seem to be on the right track.

And it only gets easier from there on.

Therapy is rough on some days, which Sherlock takes to mean that it's going well. There is talking of Irene Adler and the woman they knew as Mary Morstan. There are painful confessions and implicit forgiveness on both sides. There is acceptance of the past, slowly but surely, steadily building. There is a minor crying incident as they reach another cracking point, and a major comforting incident and a long, endless night with blankets and tea in the aftermath. There is slow, gentle lovemaking, and then there is less slow and less gentle but in no way less loving lovemaking, and that perhaps is the most significant step they have taken. John is learning to trust himself again. He is learning to trust Sherlock's trust in him, and Sherlock's trust is implicit, because he knows John, and god knows he wouldn't want to be defined by his lowest moment either.

“I _am_ a very smart man, you know,” Sherlock conversationally points out as they lie side by side after one of their less controlled encounters, blissed out by their activities as much as the fact that it worked out this well.

“Yes, you are,” John agrees and kisses the tip of his nose.

There is a lot of talking, usually at night, but their habit of saying things out loud seeps into the days as well. It gets so much easier to say things to each other, honest things, personal things, things that matter and things that aren't working. There is even a minor fight about something Sherlock can barely remember by the end of it, and sweet, exhilarating making up afterwards; by far the best way they have ever ended a quarrel in the many years they have known each other.

There are many silences as well; comfortable for the most part, interrupted by the odd grumpy or heavy melancholic silence, because they may be in love, but they are still human, they are still Sherlock and John, broken in ways they are only just learning to understand. But learning they are, and together this time. No more fighting wars on their own. No more hiding what either of them is struggling with.

Rosie seems to happily accept the fact that Sherlock has more or less moved into their room, not that it makes much of a difference, and that there is now a lot more kissing and cuddling than there used to be. Sherlock knows that John is relieved about that, not because he worried about her reaction, but because it demonstrates how right this entire thing is. How easily it's falling into place, as if it was always supposed to be this way. They are doing a lot of activities with all three of them now. Too pleased by the fact that John actually wanted him to join them, undeniable proof that him taking on the role of a parent to Rosie was what he wanted, Sherlock had foregone any answers when John first broached the subject and gone straight to kissing him senseless on the sofa until he was gasping for air.

For all the things they do together or as a family, they each make it a point to take time for themselves too. Karla was right in reminding them that they have their issues, despite their newly found togetherness. They know now that they can survive without one another, but they don't want to, and they are stronger together anyway. So they keep a balance; remaining independent but always coming back to each other at the end of the day.

A healthy, functional relationship, Karla calls it. Sherlock thinks it might be the first one either of them has had in their lives. He decides that he very much likes the feeling of it.

It surprises him in some ways, how fast they settle into their relationship after the years and years of build-up it took them to get there. Maybe it's because they are both so hell bent on getting this one thing right that they are willing to work their arses off to make it work. Maybe it's because it really was supposed to be like this all along. Sherlock knows that relationships require a level of labour, sees it in the way he and John do their best in therapy and with each other, but he is more than willing to go all in to make this relationship work. It is the most precious thing in his life, the most precious thing he has ever held in his hands. No holding on too tight. No letting go now, either.

He doesn't intend to ever let it go again, now that he knows what it feels like to have it.

* * *

“Two weeks,” Sherlock says over breakfast. John doesn't even miss a beat.

“Feels like yesterday.”

“And years ago.”

He nods. “That, too.” He gives him a smile. “I'll pick you a flower from the gardens as an anniversary gift later.”

“Don't be ridiculous,” Sherlock says with a huff, but he smiles at the thought, betraying that he is secretly pleased.

No matter how comfortable they have gotten together, there are things John does that just make Sherlock feel like it's the very first time. Holding his hand in plain sight. Holding his hand in private. Stepping behind him to wrap his arms around his waist. Kissing his mouth. Kissing his neck. Kissing his body. Touching him. Telling him those three lovely words, making Sherlock's heart skip every time without fail. It's _lovely_.

The most exhilarating part is that it's exactly the same for John. He marvels at the little sighs he makes when he hugs or kisses him, revels in the beautiful responses of his body to Sherlock's ministrations.

“I love the way you love me,” he murmurs into his hair as they are cuddled up tightly in bed that night, having put Rosie to bed some time ago to have some well-deserved alone time. Sherlock can still smell John all over himself. He curls up tighter against him, hoping to leave the same mark on him.

John goes still in his embrace, then gazes at his face, his expression completely open and unguarded.

“I don't know how you do it,” John remarks, shaking his head as he gazes into his eyes. “You just go and say things like that and completely knock me off my feet with a single sentence.” He tilts his head up. A soft pressure on his lips, then he draws back. “I love you so much. I'm so glad you feel like I'm good to you. I'm doing my best. I'll always do my best. That's a promise.”

“I know you do, and I know you will. And I promise to do the same for you.”

A complicated expression crosses John's face. He ends up snuggling closer, pressing himself to Sherlock from chest to toe, cupping his face with his hand as he looks at him intently. “I don't deserve you,” he murmurs, brushing his thumb over his cheekbone. Before Sherlock can as much as open his mouth he continues, “but I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to. Every day. I swear.”

“Relationships aren't about who deserves what,” Sherlock points out softly.

“You got that from our therapist.”

“Yes. That doesn't make it any less true, though. She is remarkably wise in some respects.”

John is quiet for a while. “We have both changed so much,” he then says. Sherlock catches his eyes. “You especially. You've grown so much, Sherlock. You try so hard. I admire you for that.”

He chews on his lip before he continues. “I made a decision, I've been meaning to tell you. This whole counselling thing, it's been... good for me. So I'm going to see Ella again,” he announces after a while. Sherlock's arms tighten around him, silently encouraging him. “Regularly, I mean. Twice a week this time, and no quitting. No more hiding or... not saying what needs to be said. I'm going to work on my temper. I'll make sure that I'm in a place where I can safely be in a relationship with you.”

Sherlock tilts his chin up, giving him a soft kiss on the lips. “That sounds good,” he then murmurs, resting his lips against John's temple. “I'm proud of you, you know.”

John is silent for a moment. “Are you really?”

“Of course,” Sherlock says immediately, looking at him indignantly. “We agreed on being honest, didn't we? Of course I'm proud of you, John. You have seen terrors worse than anyone else I know. You've endured so much hardship, and yet you're still on your feet. You're still growing, you're working hard to change yourself, even though it's painful for you. You work so hard, John. _I_ admire _you_ for that.”

John sits up, pulling his knees to his chest. “I am so lucky,” he says, “to be loved by someone like you. It reminds me to keep trying.”

“You do the same for me,” Sherlock replies and chases him for a kiss.

They spend endless minutes curled up together. John buries his face in Sherlock's neck and Sherlock rests his chin on top of his head, feeling the warm puffs of his breath on his skin.

“Can I ask you a question?” John murmurs after a while.

“Of course. You can always ask me anything you like.”

“Okay. Will you promise to answer truthfully?”

Sherlock ducks his head to look at him. “Promise,” he says. “What is this about?”

John lets out a deep breath, worrying his lip as he rests his hands on Sherlock's chest. When he eventually speaks, there's a frown on his forehead. “When we get back home, do you think this will still work out? Or is it just working because we're away right now?” He raises his eyes to meet Sherlock's. “It's just, I'm so happy about how things are. And I'm scared that it's not going to last. That it's an illusion and we're just kidding ourselves by pretending that this could work in the long run.”

“Do you think that's likely?” The thought summons an uncomfortable feeling in the pit of Sherlock's stomach. He knows that he doesn't believe it, but the idea alone is enough to make his blood run cold. He could live without all this before. But now he has tasted it, now he knows what it feels like to have all this, and he knows in his heart that the loss of it would devastate him, really and truly this time. He would let John go if that was what he wanted. He would let him go, but he would let go of himself at the same time. There is no going back from this, not anymore. They are what they are. They are this, and this is what he will try to preserve in whatever way possible. Both of them will. But the scenario John is describing is a valid fear, he knows that. Not wanting to think about it won't make the possibility cease.

“No. I don't know.” A sigh escapes John's lips. “It doesn't feel like it could actually happen, from where we are right now. We're doing so good, we both know either of us is willing to put a lot of effort into this relationship, but... these are really out of the ordinary circumstances. Who knows what will happen back home? Who knows what's going to happen to us in the future? It's not something I want to get hung up on, but I'm just... I'm thinking about what I have, and how good it is, and how nothing good ever actually stays. I can't exactly tell my anxiety to shut up and then the fears cease to exist. I'm just really scared of losing this one beautiful thing I have, and I don't even think it's that likely, but I can't help but worry about the off chance that we're not going to be able to keep this up once we're back where everything used to be shit and there's so much baggage.” He shrugs his shoulders slightly. “I don't know. I really don't, I don't think I would give you up but I can't know that something won't tear us apart, and it's maddening. I don't know. What do you think?”

“I think,” Sherlock replies slowly, “we have proven time and time again that we are stronger than any difficulties we encounter. Were this an experiment, I would call the data conclusive. And we're... well, I know that I at least feel like we are finally where we're supposed to be in this relationship. That must count for something.”

John raises a hand to his face, tracing the lines of his features. “I feel the same way,” he says softly, seeking Sherlock's gaze. “I do. It feels so right, _finally_ right, to be with you like this.”

Sherlock nods, softly so John won't stop his caresses. “We can take it slow,” he proposes after a beat. “We don't have to jump right into it. We have time to figure all the details out, don't we?”

John nods as well. “Forever, if I get any say in it.” Sherlock swallows, abandoning all further words in favour of kissing him. Neither of them speaks for a long time after that.

“You know,” he remarks a while later, his fingers threading through John's hair, “I think I'm ready to go home soon.”

John blinks at him, nodding slowly. “Yeah,” he then says. “I think I am too.”

* * *

Their bags are packed a week later, ready to be stuffed into the trunk of the car. It is with a strange mix of melancholy and gratefulness that Sherlock looks around their room one last time – because that's what it has become, their room. This is where they talked about everything. They kissed here. They shared a bed, made new memories, made promises that neither of them intends to break.

There's something else filling him as his eyes drift over the furniture, something he quickly identifies as relief. They needed to come here, he can see that now. They needed to get away in order to start over, and this is where it happened, where they finally got the chance to do it right.

And now they can finally go back home. They're going to go home, and finally, at long last, it feels like that again.

John is already downstairs, taking care of their suitcases while putting Rosie into the car. He said his goodbyes to Ruth yesterday after dinner, finding himself in an unexpected but not unwelcome embrace, but Sherlock promised to come looking for her before they leave. He catches her after her mid-morning massage. She takes one look at his coat and the scarf wrapped around his neck and nods.

“It's time, then? You're leaving?”

“In about fifteen minutes. I did promise to say goodbye.”

“You had better, or I would have come after you,” she says with a glint in her eyes. Her hand comes up to his arm, squeezing once. “Look at you. So much healthier than when I first laid eyes on you, body and soul. You're practically glowing.”

“I feel confident in saying that you played no small part in it,” Sherlock admits, straightening at the praise. He _does_ feel healthier; it feels good to have an outsider acknowledge it too. “Though a good portion of it is also down to John.” He smiles to himself, Karla's words floating in his mind. “And me. I made myself get better.”

Karla and he said their goodbye yesterday, and he finds himself regretting having to leave her behind. It will be hard, finding a therapist in London that can live up to her. He and John have yet to discuss whether Sherlock seeing Ella as well would be a good idea, but he thinks they may give it a try. It will help that she already knows them, both of them, and their backstory. She did help them individually, even while they were still far from ready to change.

“That you did,” Ruth agrees. “And now you and John are going to take care of your future together, as it should be.”

She smiles at Sherlock's pleased expression. “You know, I see a lot of myself in you. You and your John, you reminded me a lot of myself and my Mina. Love of my life, she was. I think I might have been hers, too. But she went and married someone else.” She gives a small smile at the sight of Sherlock's expression. “Things were very different back then. We never really got to resolve everything that stood between us.”

Sherlock looks at her, feeling like he is only now understanding things about her he should have seen long ago. Old age again. “I didn't know,” he says softly, apologetically.

“I didn't either, for a long time. Then I did know. It didn't help.” Her smile widens. “But then there's you, and John. People like the two of you. And here you are. You know, and you did something about it. And now you'll go and get to be happy, as it should be.” Her expression softens. “It was too late for us, but not for you. I knew you'd get there. And I'm so very glad you did.”

Sherlock holds her gaze, nodding in acknowledgement. “Thank you,” he says honestly. “For everything.”

“Oh, I didn't do anything,” she retorts with a wink, giving his arm a gentle squeeze. “That was all you.” She takes a step back as she lets go of him. “I'll be very cross if you don't call me from time to time while I'm still around, just so you know.”

A smile unfolds on Sherlock's lips. “Noted. Likewise, we will be very cross if you never take that trip to London you've been talking about. Mrs. Hudson would love meeting you, I've been telling her about you on the phone. You'd get along splendidly.”

“Well,” she says with a grin, “for Mrs. Hudson I'll think about it.”

They look at each other, and her grin fades into a smile. “So. Goodbye, Sherlock Holmes.”

“Goodbye, Ruth. It's been a pleasure.”

“The pleasure was all mine, believe me. Now, you should be off, shouldn't you? Go and be happy with your man.”

Sherlock nods, then steps forward and pulls her into a brief but tight embrace. “Will do.”

He looks at her one last time, then turns his back and heads for the car. He feels her eyes on his back, but he doesn't turn back. She's right, it's time for them to go home. And he has never been more ready.

Because for the first time since Sherlock stepped off that rooftop and irrevocably changed everything, 221b Baker Street is going to be that for both of them – home. It doesn't matter that for now Sherlock is still the sole resident, and is going to continue to be for some time. They have decided that John isn't going to move back in right away. There are things to consider, rooms to be child-proofed, things to buy. And the fears John brought up, the need to test the waters first before diving in head-first, all of that is still valid.

So they _are_ going to test the waters first. For the first time in his life, Sherlock is going to date someone. They will start out like that and see where it leads them. If they find that living apart works better, then they will continue to do so until Rosie is of age and off to university or elsewhere, or longer still, if that's what it takes. But John will always have a room at Baker Street, no matter if it's Sherlock's or the one he used to have, and if he only uses it for sleepovers. It is his, and he will make use of it. The important thing isn't that they are going all the way right away. It's that he's going to come home at all, in the long run.

John regards him with a soft expression. “Alright?”

Sherlock knows that he is asking about Ruth, being aware that Sherlock took a bit of a special liking to her, but it's also about so much more, about leaving this place behind and going back to what they left at home, about the two of them and the decisions they have made about each other. And it's alright. It's all alright.

“Better than that,” Sherlock says, and John nods.

“Shall we go home, then?” he asks, offering his hand. Sherlock reaches out and clasps it tightly.

“Yes. Let's go home.”

They climb into the waiting car together, holding on to each other as the driver starts the engine and takes them away from the place they spent the past few weeks at. Eaton Health Resort is disappearing behind them, but neither of them pays it much mind. What's really important after all is what lies ahead.

* * *

The flat is eerily quiet when he steps through the door for the first time. Everything is tidy. There is no sign of dust save for a few grains in the air. Mrs. Hudson must have come up and cleaned regularly while he was away. Sherlock drops his suitcase and looks around.

It does feel strange to be back here, but it's not as different as he anticipated, or maybe even feared. _He_ is different, but he is still Sherlock Holmes, and perhaps he is now more himself than he has been in months. He steps farther into the flat. The rooms seem to echo with the ghost of who he was when he left, but Sherlock refuses to let himself be overcome with melancholy. Even that seems far away now.

He grabs his suitcase and moves to settle back in. John and Rosie are coming over tomorrow, and he wants everything to be put away and back to normal by then. A tingle spreads in his stomach at the thought. _John and Rosie are coming over tomorrow_. It's not that they didn't do that before, but the absolute certainty and implication of it makes him flush with happiness. They spent every day of the last few weeks together, and yet it wasn't even a question that they see each other tomorrow. This is how it is going to be from now on. Sherlock, for one, looks forward to it.

John greets him with a kiss and a hug the next day. Sherlock, caught off guard, wraps his arms around him in return and holds on tightly. They exchange a look when they draw back, and an unspoken assurance passes between them.

_Still alright?_

_Better than that. I've been waiting ages for this._

_So have I._

Sherlock smiles first, and John follows suit. Sherlock greets Rosie as well, then steps aside. “Do come in,” he says cordially, winking at John's expression.

A calm, uplifting certainty comes over him as John steps into the flat. It's going to be alright, even back home. Even with everything that happened. They are going to be alright, because they are Sherlock Holmes and John Watson, and it seems that they will always find a way, never mind the circumstances.

“It's good to be back,” John says, and Sherlock leans in and kisses him.

“It's good to have you back,” he declares and closes the door, a smile playing on his lips.

It is so normal. Rosie pads around the living room like she has done many times before, clearly remembering where everything she likes to play with is put away. Sherlock watches her tugging on a box full of magazines and starts taking them out one by one, scattering them on the floor around her. The tidiness is not going to last long at this rate. He can't say that he minds.

“Tea?” John asks from the kitchen, already cluttering around in there, and that is normal too.

“Yes, please,” Sherlock says, watching him prepare their cups with practised, efficient movements. Done a thousand times already. Normal. Sherlock's lips stretch into a grin. Who would have thought that the prospect of normality would one day excite him this much?

He follows John into the kitchen. His lips curl up as he steps behind him, loosely wrapping his arms around his middle as he waits for the kettle to boil. “You're in a good mood,” John comments, turning his head slightly to get a glance at his face.

“I'm happy to be home,” Sherlock says, dropping a kiss to John's neck before retreating into the living room, swooping Rosie into his arms.

And that is how it starts, like any other day, only that nothing is quite the same as it was before. They settle in the sitting room, having tea, entertaining Rosie, checking their phones and laptops, falling into calm silence, interrupted only by Rosie's content cluttering and the familiar sounds of a home long lived in. Mrs. Hudson comes up in the afternoon, having insisted on a visit after hearing that John would be there, carrying a plate of the biscuits she knows John likes so much.

She is over the moon when they tell her, beaming as she looks between them, Sherlock with Rosie in his lap, John with his eyes on Sherlock. She, Sherlock realises, has been waiting for this too. Maybe it's more like hoping if you don't know if it's ever going to happen. But then he looks at her, smiling at them without ever faltering, and he thinks back to the very first time he brought John back to Baker Street and her outspoken support of them, the conviction she had that there had to be more to them. Her quiet understanding when John was gone, and her support to them both in the aftermath of Mary. How she seemed to be the only one who ever truly got them and their feelings towards each other, including themselves. He thinks that maybe she did know after all.

When John leaves in the evening it feels sad, but Sherlock smiles through it because he knows he isn't the only one regretting the day coming to a close, and more importantly he knows that John is going to come back, bringing more kisses and hugs in the kitchen and other things when Rosie isn't there with them.

It's only a handful of days before everyday life overcomes them again. John goes back to the clinic for a few hours during the week. Rosie goes to the day nursery when she isn't with Sherlock. Sherlock takes cases again, solving a few from home before Lestrade calls with a tempting triple murder in Chiswick.

It's five days before John joins him on a case. Seven before they crash at Baker Street, with Rosie staying at a friend's for the night. Seven days before hands and mouths and tentative breaches into still new territory. Seven days before quiet gasps and shaky moans and giggles in the dim bedroom. Eight days before being kissed good morning, before breakfast in bed, before morning sex until John has to leave.

The week after, John stays overnight again, planned this time. They put Rosie to sleep in the upstairs room, then cuddle up together before falling asleep in each other's embrace.

Two weeks back home, and John starts to leave things at Baker Street. Sporadically, but nevertheless. Small things. Unimportant things. They start to fill the flat with another life that isn't Sherlock's, a life that stays even after John has gone. Sherlock clears a bit of space in his wardrobe and shelves, sorting the small, unimportant things away like they belong there. He looks at them and smiles. John, the next time he visits, does too.

It's three weeks of being back in their usual surroundings before they experience their first actual fight as a couple (terrible, definitely not something Sherlock is eager to repeat). It's three weeks and two more hours before they lie in each other's arms, experiencing the first rather spectacular making up thereof (brilliant, captivating, utterly mindblowing, something Sherlock desperately wants to repeat).

It's another week before John stays overnight regularly. There is a lot of smiling, and hushed giggles, and appreciation of every second of physical closeness. There's the occasional night terror on either side, and whispered assurances and tight embraces in the aftermath. There's a lot of takeaway and DVDs and John's socks joining Sherlock's in the drawer, John's vests staying in the wardrobe, Rosie's clothes getting their own space in the upstairs room. At first it's one night a week, then two. They draw the line at five on principle but realise that they don't actually need to, because things are fine. They are more than fine; they are brilliant. They are finally as they should be – almost.

Two weeks later, John starts looking into offers for the house. Mycroft kindly offers to take care of the details, and while neither of them knows just what exactly that contains, John gets an offer with a rather impossible sum within two weeks.

Two months later, 221b is awash with Mycroft's minions carrying in and out boxes of clothes, books, and childcare supplies – some of them exchanged for rather more expensive alternatives, as they find while unpacking. Mycroft, of course, has no idea what they are talking about. John decides to use his newly found mentality of picking his battles and lets it slide for once. It is for Rosie, after all, and the gesture probably comes from a place of guilt and feeling the need to express his acceptance of the most recent developments.

By the time the minions have left Mrs. Hudson is already upstairs, giving them a hand with unpacking and looking after Rosie despite their initial protests. She seems excited too – as intimidated by the strangers and boxes as she is, she notices the underlying happiness her father and Sherlock display.

It takes hours to go through the boxes, litres of tea, stressed bickering and twice as many giggly kisses to make up for it, and a huge celebratory order at their favourite Chinese takeaway to settle John and Rosie back in where, in Sherlock's eyes, they have always belonged. It's late when they call it a day, with Rosie already asleep and Mrs. Hudson having retreated to her own flat. They are far from done, the floorboards and furniture still cluttered with boxes and items. But the most important things have been put away, clothes and toys have found their places among Sherlock's possessions, and the flat officially has three residents now instead of one. It's not quite the composition Sherlock imagined when he allowed himself to dream of John's return, him, John, and a child, but it will do. It will do wonderfully, in fact.

He looks up when John nudges a cup of tea into his hands, gratefully accepting the warming beverage. John's eyes are soft as he looks at him. “Alright?”

“Tired, but very happy,” Sherlock says, and John smiles at him before letting his eyes drift over the messy flat.

“It's starting to look like back when we first lived here,” he comments.

“Except for the childproofed furniture and the multitude of toys.”

“Yeah.” John huffs out a quiet laugh, like he can't quite believe it himself. Then his eyes meet Sherlock's. “It's good to be home,” he says softly, and Sherlock, completing the mirror image of their return after St. Ives, pulls him close and kisses him.

“It's good to have you back,” he replies. “At long last.”

“It's been a long time coming, hasn't it?” John lets his eyes sweep over Sherlock's face, no doubt taking in the new lines on his face, the hints of grey at his temples. A smile dawns on his face as he reaches out, brushing a strand out of his forehead. “But I'm here now. That's all that matters.”

“It's everything,” Sherlock agrees, clasping their hands tightly together. “And it's for good this time.”

“Forever,” John promises, cupping his face to seal the words with another kiss. “This time, it's gonna be forever.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it! The response to this has been amazing and honouring, and I'm happy that I managed to bring some of you closure with this story. Thank you to everyone who read along and especially those who commented and let me know that this resonated with them in some way. It means more to me than I can tell you :)

**Author's Note:**

> If you have thoughts, questions, feedback, or just anything to say, comments make me very happy :)


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